


A Hundredfold Grief, Divisible By Love

by Xela



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Music, Nightmares, Pack Dynamics, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Slow Build, Threesome - M/M/M, bloodplay (mild), fear of self harm, fear of suicide, music therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Juliette dies a violent death, Nick falls into depression, plagued by guilt. Monroe and Renard take turns in comforting and trying to get him out of the depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the [kink meme.](http://grimm-kink.dreamwidth.org/1735.html?thread=1365703#cmt1365703) Set post 1x14, 'Plumed Serpent," so spoilers implied from that episode (though nothing terribly in depth). And, per the prompt, off screen character death (Juliette).
> 
> This surprised me by being totally in Monroe’s head. I’m usually a multiple-shifting-viewpoints kind of person, but there you are.

** Prologue **

Nick stares at the dancing flame. Red. Like Juliette’s hair, except not, because red is a broad spectrum and Juliette was deeper, fuller and this is viciously bright and ravenous.

He stares at the fire, has to twist around to keep watching it because someone’s pulling him away, out of sight, but even around the bend it’s there, dancing in front of his eyes, blossoming into an inferno when he closes them. He can even hear the roar if he listens for it; it’s almost comforting, much nicer than the screams he’s never heard but echo in his head, so he lets it swallow him. 

The fire consumes his feelings and leaves behind numbness and ash.

** Pt. 1 **

Monroe hates hospitals. They smell like chemicals and death with a misery chaser. Mental wards? Well they’re the emotional equivalent of waving a bright red matador’s flag in his face. His wolf reviles this place; these people are prey twice over, not-pack and weak. But Nick’s here, transferred mostly because the hospital needs beds, and Monroe can’t leave him alone. Nick doesn’t have anyone, not after...

So he visits Nick when he can. After a couple weeks the nurses know him, start telling him about the other people who visit, Nick’s partner and his boss, though Hank’s visits slowly start petering off. Monroe can’t really fault him while he watches his friend grow thinner, eyes sunken and distant. He doesn’t talk, might eat or move if you tell him to. He looks...he looks like he’s lost his mate. Like Elrich, one of his litter-mates, who’d mated his high school sweetheart only to lose her to cancer right after college. He’d lasted six months and faded away before their eyes.

Monroe doesn’t know how to fix this, if he can fix this, but he knows leaving Nick here will only end one way. Even though the nurses like him, slip him information about Nick he’s not strictly supposed to know, nothing short of going through the courts can get Nick released into his custody.

Then one day there’s a man in the lobby as he’s leaving, dressed in a suit and standing in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. Everyone just maneuvers around him. Monroe pauses, sensing...something...and approaches warily.

“So you’re Monroe.”

“Uh. Yeah? Who are you?”

“My name is Sean Renard. I want to talk to you about Nick.”

***

It takes three days and Monroe has a new roommate, as well as papers certifying him as some sort of home care specialist and a sizable signing bonus from a private nursing firm. (It’s not that Nick’s a, a _job,_ but Monroe needs money and legal recourse for dealing with this situation, and neither of them want Renard to be Monroe’s boss in this matter, for all the firm is a go-between for his money.) It had taken Monroe about 45 minutes to cotton on to who, exactly, Sean Renard really was and then another 15 to get into a fight with the _Prince of Portland_ about the care and feeding of their friendly, semi-catatonic Grimm. Monroe’s not really sure who won, to be honest, but he got to take Nick home so...

So Monroe works from home and he can totally do this. He sticks Nick in front of the TV when he needs to work on a clock, even though Nick doesn’t react or acknowledge anything. Just sits and stares. Monroe sets alarms on his phone to remind him to make Nick him get up and move around. He makes the heartiest stews he can think of, feeding them to Nick by hand when he simply refuses to feed himself, and talks at Nick like he might join in any second.

It’s exhausting, at first, figuring out how to adjust his carefully regimented lifestyle to accommodate Nick. He really is a full time job and then some, which means a lot of things get left by the wayside, like Pilates, the occasional midnight run, building his own clocks, and practicing the cello. But Nick’s putting on weight, he looks less wan and marginally more healthy, so Monroe counts it all as a win.

The first time Renard shows up, unannounced, Monroe actually leaves him alone in his house with Nick while he takes a long, much needed walk through the woods. His wolfy instincts can’t even muster up so much as a snarl at the stranger in his territory, too happy to be out of the house for...shit, three hours. It’s almost dinner time and Monroe hasn’t even prepped anything and he’s a terrible, terrible friend for forgetting about Nick and who’s going to _starve to death_ because Monroe’s in his emo phase and--

Renard has made himself at home in Monroe’s kitchen. He’s rolled up his sleeves and something that smells divinely French and authentic simmers on the stove; he’s humming some song that sounds familiar but Monroe can’t place. There’s a cold beer sitting on the table--clearly not Renard’s as his is half-drunk on the counter--condensation just starting to bead on the surface.

Nick is in the kitchen, which isn’t unusual, but the way he’s paying attention to Renard is. His eyes are focused, tracking Renard as he moves around the kitchen. So Monroe doesn’t say anything, just nods at Renard (the freaking _Prince of Portland_ , hoshit) and takes a deep, cleansing breath. And then another. And another. And he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore.

***

Renard visits regularly after that. Again, there’s an adjustment phase, but it’s infinitely easier than the initial one. Monroe can escape for a few hours when he needs to, has time to ease back into his hobbies. He discovers that he like Pilates for more than just a way to keep his urges in check. He’s also got this weird appreciation for life’s smaller things now, which he tries not to think too hard about. That makes him feel like he’s exploiting Nick’s circumstances and depression in some vague, disturbing, guilt-inducing way.

It helps that Nick’s...not really better, but he’s doing more things on his own. Like showering and dressing himself, which is a relief in more ways than one. Renard is good at that, giving Nick orders with an authority Monroe just doesn’t have and that Nick responds to. He remains determinedly disinterested in the world around him, though.

Monroe learns that it’s okay to feel frustrated and claustrophobic with the situation sometimes. That it doesn’t make him a bad person. That’s all Renard’s doing. He put his contact information in Monroe’s phone after that initial visit and the first time Monroe calls him up, at his wit’s end (because he’d never call the freaking _Prince of Portland_ for anything trivial, he likes his life) and desperately needing a break, Renard comes over immediately. Monroe’s half way through a stupid movie he knows nothing about when he realizes Renard must have skipped out on work. For him. Well, kind of for him; probably mostly for Nick, but a little for Monroe. When Monroe tries to apologize Renard sits him down, gets him a beer, and makes him talk.

\---

Monroe and Renard have a ritual now. Once Nick’s asleep--or at least hiding in his room--they crack open a six pack, sit on Monroe’s couch, and bitch. It’s very cathartic. Monroe feels like he knows everyone at the station, which might come in handy if they try to arrest him again.

Late one night Renard breaks down and admits that Nick’s leave is running out; that Hank refuses to get a new partner and Renard’s been backing him up, keeping his superiors at bay; that Renard’s holding onto Nick’s spot with everything he has but he’s afraid it won’t be enough. For all his power in the Creature world, he’s still limited when it comes to human politics.

Monroe kisses him.

Somewhere in the three-odd months they’ve spent figuring each other out, Monroe realizes Renard’s a pretty decent guy. You know. For a Reineke Fuchsbau.

***

He hasn’t touched his cello in almost four months. He’s had the time, he just...hasn’t had the inclination. But he did something potentially disastrous the other night, hasn’t heard from Renard since, and the only way he can think of to turn off his brain is to lose himself in music. So he decides to play the Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1.

He butchers it. Actually, he butchers it, drags its corpse through the mud, throws it off a cliff, and then salts the body. His hands ache and the muscles of his arm are in rebellion and no one could call what he just played music but he feels damn good. Almost high.

So he shakes out his hand, closes his eyes, and plays a slow, mournful variation of Moonlight Sonata one of his college buddies arranged back in the day. It needs another cello and a pianist but it get his point across. (It’s trite and kind of ridiculous for a blutbad, but Moonlight Sonata is hands down his favorite composition ever. Bite him.)

He plays the last note and lets it linger. The silence that comes after feels satiated. Monroe smiles to himself and finally opens his eyes.

Nick’s standing in the doorway, tear tracks visible on his cheeks, face morphed into an expression of such agony and loss that it makes Monroe gasp and tears prick at his eyes. Nick raises his hands, dazed, and touches the moisture on his face. He starts and yanks his hand away to stare at it, almost confused. Monroe stands, one hand on his cello and the other reaching for Nick. But Nick backs out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

It’s so unexpected Monroe stares in stupefaction before he realizes he should probably _do something._

Has no idea what that something might be so he calls Renard.


	2. Chapter 2

Renard’s suggestion is to act normally.

Monroe is terrible at acting normally.

He’s twitchy and prone to putting his foot in his mouth and outbursts of word vomit that culminates in disaster. Nick doesn’t act any different from what’s become his baseline, but by the end of the night Monroe’s exhausted from ‘acting normally.’ And totally convinced he’s going to make Nick worse, drive him further into his own head because who wouldn’t hide when your best friend is a spaz? Monroe would run away screaming--in the old days, he would have just eaten him. self. Which is an utterly disturbing mental image.

When he confesses this all over the screwdriver Renard gave him in lieu of a beer (just enough orange juice to color it), Renard smiles--an _actual_ smile which, whoa, did _not_ see that coming, Jesus Christ, that cannot be legal what the fuck Renard warn a guy first--and kisses him. And that’s...really nice. Actually, kind of exceptional. Renard’s got this whole dominant-but-not-overbearing thing going on, firmly in charge but expecting Monroe to hold his own, which _does things_ to Monroe. Tingly feeling sorts of things.

He feels like a teenager, making out on his couch, except he was hardly smooth enough to pull his partner down by the tie so they ended up laying down, pressed intimately together, at that age. (To be fair, he’s probably not smooth enough to pull that off now, except that Renard seems to think it’s a grand idea and makes it work.)

He gets Renard down to his undershirt, tie and white button-up wrinkling on his floor, and--oh wow. So Renard has tattoos. Unexpected but pretty freaking awesome. Monroe kind of wants to lick them. The ones he can see, at least, are some pretty big pieces; looks like Renard’s working on two half-sleeves, ink stopping at his elbows. Renard clears his throat and Monroe realizes he’s gotten distracted.

“I just--that is really, really hot. For the record. Just, uh.” Renard raises one eyebrow. Monroe’s been trying to teach himself how to do that for forever. “So, we’re, um, doing this. Right? Because I’d really, really like to but it might get weird.”

“It’s not going to get weird.” And that voice, just a little bit dark with a hint of command, makes Monroe arch back and bare his throat. A low rumble that he feels more than hears starts in Renard’s chest. His teeth scrape over Monroe’s jugular and it’s electrifying.

“Oh.” Their heads whip around in tandem, Monroe wolfing out just a little. They see Nick standing in the doorway with a glass of water in hand, looking rumpled but _awake_. His head is cocked a little to one side, taking the both of them in, though he lingers a bit on Renard. “Huh.” He takes a sip of his water and then turns around and walks away.

Monroe’s first thought is, _Of course he’d choose now to come out of his fugue._ His second, directed at the universe at large, is, “What the hell?”

Renard jerks and then leaps into action. He takes off after Nick and leaves Monroe to scramble behind him. The door’s locked. Which is unexpected and a...good sign? Maybe? Because Nick hasn’t been too concerned with privacy lately, and a locked door is a pretty clear statement of opinion.

They knock on the door but get no response. They debate the pros and cons of breaking down the door, but ultimately decide not to. They camp out in the hall, switching off every couple of hours, senses on alert for even a hint of blood.

It’s six in the morning when the door opens and Nick comes out. He blinks down at Monroe, sprawled in the hallway, but mild surprise is all the emotion he shows. He steps over Monroe’s legs and into the bathroom. A moment later the shower comes on. Monroe dithers between waking Renard and keeping an eye (well, a nose, really) on Nick. He decides to let Renard sleep and slips into the bathroom. No scent of blood, just the usual soapy bathroom smells. He sits anxiously on the toilet until the water cuts off, then slinks out again, closing the door softly behind him.

And jumps when he turns to find Renard standing _right behind him._

“Dude, don’t do that!” he gasps.

“Stand in your hallway?” Renard asks blandly. Monroe scowls. This is not the time for jokes.

The bathroom door opens and they both turn to Nick like they’re polarized and he’s due North. Once again Nick takes them both in, spending just a little more time on Renard. Monroe wonders if he should be reading into that.

They stand there, silent, Nick’s hair damp and curling, the tension building until Monroe can barely breathe.

“Hey, Nick! What’s up?” He winces, because he sounds manic and stressed, but no one else is saying anything. Nick glances between the two of them, a little furrow between his eyes. “Are you hungry? Down for some breakfast?” Nick shrugs, but it’s a _response_ and something tightly coiled unwinds in Monroe’s chest and he’s almost dizzy with the relief of it.

Renard’s the one who moves first, spinning on his heel and heading down the stairs, clearly expecting them to follow suit. Nick trails after him, leaving Monroe alone to lean against the wall and quietly assure himself that everything is going to be okay.

***

Things...don’t really change. Nick talks occasionally and is rarely where they left him these days, but he still has a tendency to stare off into space. He’s got a near permanent worry line between his eyes, and that blank look has been replaced with one of unending sadness.

Things...aren’t weird between Monroe and Renard. Which is weird. Because they should be. They’re not exactly ignoring what happened--Renard touches him with a degree of familiarity it takes him awhile to get used to, and longer to feel comfortable reciprocating. He feels Nick’s eyes like lasers when they touch in front of him, all of his focus on the place where he and Renard are joined. There’s been no repeat of the couch incident or anything like it, though. 

In fact, most of Renard’s time is spent with Nick, talking in low tones. Nick sometimes talks back, his voice a low rasp (he’s still not used to using it), short and perfunctory. It’s hard not to feel left out; even though they never ask him to leave or anything, when he gets too close Renard smoothly changes the subject or stops talking all together, waiting for Monroe to reveal why he’s there or strike up a conversation.

But Nick always seems a little more animated after their quiet talks, so Monroe ignores the niggling, dark little feeling lodged in his chest and concentrates on the fact that Nick’s healing.

\---

Nick seems to like watching Monroe cook. He sits down at the table, angles his chair into the corner, and watches Monroe with frightening intensity. The first few times Monroe gives himself tension headaches, muscles so tight his shoulder bunch up around his ears and his instincts going haywire. But he manages to keep his cool and, while he’ll never be comfortable under that kind of scrutiny (especially from a Grimm, despite that it’s one he absolutely trusts), it’s manageable.

One day he’s setting a sandwich in front of Nick, with homemade spicy mayo and extra avocado, when Nick reaches out and snags Monroe’s wrist, fingers pressed against the pulse point. Monroe startles so badly he drops his own plate on the table with a bang, his sandwich deconstructing at the impact. Nick’s gaze doesn’t falter.

“Thank you.” He runs the pad of his thumb over Monroe’s wrist. His eyes are bright and intense, holding Monroe captive. Until he lets go, and abrupt loss that almost makes Monroe whimper, and all of that brilliant, electrifying attention is turned to his sandwich. Nick’s lost in his own head again while Monroe gapes stupidly because it’s the first thing Nick’s said directly to him since he woke up.

He rakes a hand through his hair and realizes he’s shaking. He mutters something incomprehensible even to himself and flees into the den. Sits on the couch, his head between his legs, and tries to figure out why his eyes are burning.

***

He practices the cello regularly now, but whatever happened that first time doesn’t repeats. Nick never makes an appearance, though there are times when Monroe catches his scent just outside the door, fading but there.

The six month anniversary of Juliette’s death sneaks up on them. It’s such a small thing; it never occurred to him that his free wall calendar could wreak so much havoc. Or that Nick would even pay attention to such a thing. And it takes him longer than it should to figure out why Nick’s taken to sitting motionless in the kitchen, staring at the wall.

It’s actually Renard who puts it together, and it’s so arbitrary that they put such significance on things like this, six months, except how Juliette’s been gone for half a year now and Nick’s still feeling it so acutely. They all are, because Nick’s pain is a physical thing to them. They can smell it, taste it in the air. They _react_ to it, because if Nick is pack to Monroe, he’s...whatever the equivalent is for fuschbau. (And it could totally be different for Reineke... Monroe would ask Renard but he likes being alive, thanks.)

Nick returns to his catatonic state with a vengeance. Monroe wakes up to find him on the couch, eyes open and unblinking. Renard shows up at 10, having prearranged the day off, and they spend the day on the couch keeping an eye on Nick as the scent of his grief slowly seeps into everything.

Monroe makes it till noon before he can’t be there anymore. The stale, unyielding sadness, the blank affect. Blutbad don’t endure stoically. He wants to throw back his head and howl out Nick’s agony to the world, give it a voice, but that’s not possible.

He plays Kol Nidre instead.

He revisits the piece from time to time; he’s not religious in the human sense of the word, but one of the first friends he made post-Reformation was a Jewish guy named Lou who had just detoxed off meth for the third time. They were in the same addiction support group and his family still wasn’t talking to him (neither was Monroe’s, but that was part of the price he had to pay). Yom Kippur fell on his three month anniversary and he’d wanted to mark the occasion, to seek atonement for his lapses and start again. So they’d all pitched in; Monroe and a couple of the other amateur musicians in their group (well, their pianist had graduated from Juilliard, go figure) got together and learned Kol Nidre.

Monroe _feels_ the music. He feels the history behind the text, the weight of its meaning. He’s made pledges and vows, to himself and others; ones he meant with the best of intentions but may be unable to fulfill. He’s failed himself and others, promised the impossible, and can only ask for atonement. He’s asking because he can’t forgive himself, even though he knows he should. He promised Nick a lot of things and he hasn’t even been able to comfort him.

It’s comforting to let it all out, to put it in the music and let them carry his emotions away. He feels wrung out and tired when he’s done, but also centered. There’s a certain kind of peace that comes from this kind of catharsis.

He hears a muffled sound from the hall and goes to investigate, still caught in the hazey aftermath of his playing.

Nick’s curled into Renard, shoulders shaking, sobs muffled. Monroe can smell his tears, bitter salt in the air.

This is his pack-mate, hurting. So much. Monroe slides down the wall and leans into Nick’s space. He lets out a low whine, deep in the back of his throat, so much pain--his own, and because he knows Nick is hurting. Renard’s hand comes up and slides through his hair, molds gently along the curve of Monroe’s skull and guides him gently down. Monroe leans against Nick’s back, nuzzles into the nape of Nick’s neck and provides what comfort he can.

It’s not enough; nothing could possibly be enough. But it’s all he’s got, and he’ll take Nick crying in their arms over blank disassociation any day.

It occurs to him that this is the first time he’s seen Nick cry.


	3. Chapter 3

Nick falls asleep sandwiched between them, hands clutching Renard’s shirt in a white-knuckled grip.

Together, they manage to pick him up. Renard carries Nick into the master bedroom, Monroe dogging his steps like a worried mother hen. Nothing can convince Nick to let go of him, so Renard lies down on the bed, Nick half-sprawled over him, head tucked under his chin. Nick’s shivering. Monroe pulls up the comforter, makes sure they’re both comfortable before turning to leave. He’s stopped short by a low, warning growl from Renard.

They stare at eachother for a moment, Renard’s gaze steady with just a hint of command to it. Monroe waffles, then sighs and climbs in on the other side of Nick; he’d only lay in his own bed, awake and fretting. The smugness practically radiates off of Renard but Monroe’s too drained to care.

He’s not too drained to worry, though. Monroe’s not quite sure what he should do. Most wesen don’t weigh physical touch the same way humans do. Monroe had grown up napping on top of the other cubs in his pack, skin-to-skin until teenage embarrassment and hormones got in the way. And then as an adult, his chosen pack collapsing together after a four-legged, moonlit run and then waking up with two, bodies pressed together to keep warm. Touch is a necessity, freely exchanged without a lot of the interpersonal implications humans put on it. (That lack is actually one of the hardest parts about being Reformed.) So he doesn’t know how to touch Nick, even though Renard seems to have jumped in with both feet.

“Think any louder and you’ll wake him.” Monroe glares but scoots over until his side presses against Nick’s back. He folds his hands over his stomach and drifts.

\---

Monroe actually falls asleep at some point. He wakes up around 4 in the afternoon, groggy and overly warm. His brain is stuffed with cotton from sleeping so long and he’s warm because Nick’s doing a fine imitation of an octopus-style blanket.

Also, Renard’s gone. The bastard.

Monroe tries to ease away from Nick but he’s a clingy blanket and Monroe’s not that smooth. Nick raises his head and blinks a few times. He stares at Monroe for a long moment and then sighs, letting his head drop on Monroe’s shoulder. The bundle of emotions that unfurl in Monroe’s chest do not bear analyzing.

“Hungry?” he asks, sotto voice. Nick chuckles, a burst of air that Monroe can feel against his skin.

“Always feeding me,” he murmurs, rubbing his face against Monroe’s shirt. “Trynna fatten me up?”

For no reason whatsoever, Monroe blushes.

(And it turns out Renard got called in for a triple homicide that ended up involving a trafficking ring and a kidnapped child. They don’t see him for three days and when he does show up, bleary-eyed and clearly sleep deprived, Monroe feeds him a hot meal and then puts him to bed. His bed, because Nick’s room was the only guest room and the office has a futon that’s possessed of evil.

Which poses a minor problem when it’s time for bed, and Monroe dithers until he tells himself to wolf up, Renard’s dead to the world. And he’s pretty sure Renard won’t mind.

When he wakes up there’s an extra occupant in the bed. Monroe decides to go back to sleep.)

***

The aftermath of Nick’s breakdown appears to be mania. He wants to _do_ things. He cleans the house from top to bottom--a terrifying day where Monroe sequestered himself in his office and didn’t come out until the sounds of vacuuming had stopped--and does the laundry; he pesters Renard for details about open cases so much that he brings a few cold case files to the house just to keep Nick occupied; he fills out _every single one_ of Monroe’s sudoku books. But all of that’s manageable; they both know he’s going to crash, again, and they can deal with it. They’re _prepared_ to deal with it because Monroe’s house is a safe and familiar space.

Except Nick wants to go _outside._

Like go to the grocery store with Monroe; or to get a few things still in his house, which to Monroe’s knowledge no one has been in since That Day; or to just get out of the house and go for a walk in the woods.

Monroe understands--oh, he more than gets it, he feels itchy and cooped up more and more these days, but even with the night runs Renard’s presence lets him indulge in it’s not enough, his wolf scratching at the cage Monroe’s imprisoned him in. His house feels aggressively irritating, and Monroe’s pretty sure wood grain finish is about to join ‘red’ on his ‘murderous triggers’ list. So yeah, he totally understands where Nick’s coming from.

The problem is, Nick still smells weak. Not sick, but...run down, easy prey. The thought of Nick walking through the world like that makes Monroe’s hackles rise and a growl start in his chest, low and threatening.

So when Nick brings it up, Monroe talks him around the issue. Nick shrugs agreeably and then leaves the second Monroe’s back is turned. For ten panicked, instinct-fuelled minutes, Monroe loses his mind. He barrels out of the house, half-transformed, and tracks Nick by scent, settling into a ground-eating run.

There’s an eisbieber in the area, Monroe can smell it. Close, too close. He puts on an extra burst of speed, rounds a corner and there they are. Walking towards one another, the eisbieber getting too close to Nick. He grabs Nick and steps between him and the eisbieber, growling. The eisbieber freezes; its fear smells heady and intoxicating. He could rip it open and apart in an instant, bathe in its blood and paint a warning for everyone else.

“Monroe!” The eisbieber flinches and Monroe growls louder, prepares to leap at it. Nick drags him around. “MONROE!” His senses fill with Nick. He leans in and presses his nose against Nick’s neck, and sniffs. He follows his nose down to Nick’s armpit and revels in the rich scents captured there.

Nick’s alive and healing, but the sickly-sweet smell of sickness and despair still cling to him. He’ll heal, he has to heal, but until he’s back the pack is weak and exposed and Monroe has to protect it. Keep it safe. Keep all of them safe, with claws and teeth if he has to.

When he comes back to himself, just a little, he realizes Nick’s rubbing soothing circles on his back and murmuring soft words of reassurance. Monroe bares his teeth, remembering the eisbieber, but Nick grabs his chin and forces him to stay focused.

“He’s gone. I promise.” Monroe huffs and covers Nick’s body with his own, searching for danger. The path is empty, but it won’t stay that way for long. He starts herding Nick back towards his house, constantly scanning for danger. “Okay, okay. We can go back. That’s fine. Easy.”

It’s absurd that Nick acts like he’s taking care of Monroe.

\---

Monroe read once that it’s impossible to literally choke yourself to death. You pass out and then your hands relax and you start breathing normally and wake up with a really bruised throat and the realization that you’re a moron. Apparently this applies to suffocating yourself with a pillow, because he’s been trying for a good three or four hours now, but he can still feel the shame and embarrassment. At least Nick had left him alone after the first half hour.

(On a related note, really tough to die of mortification as well.)

“Want to talk about it?” Monroe yelps, then groans, and presses the pillow firmly against his face. No, he does not want to talk about it, why does Renard even know about it in the first place, and doesn’t he know that sneaking up on people--in their own house, no less--is the height of rudeness? 

There are spots dancing in front of his eyes when the pillow is meanly ripped away from him. The lights in the room are too bright and he whimpers. He throws an arm over his eyes and sighs.

“I did not peg you for the overdramatic type.” Monroe glares at the crook of his elbow. He tries to ignore Renard’s presence, but there’s this trick he pulls where he fills up the room and you can’t help but know exactly where he is at all times. Currently, he’s standing over Monroe. Staring.

Monroe holds out for as long as he can but the intense scrutiny makes him twitchy. When Renard’s fingers wrap around his wrist Monroe gives into the inevitable. He lets Renard pull his arm away finds he was wrong. Renard’s bending over him, bare inches away, stretched over Monroe’s body and pinning one wrist to the bed. Monroe’s having a hard time getting any air and his lips open in a soft gasp.

Renard flinches and for an insane moment Monroe thinks he might get kissed. He licks his lips in anticipation and Renard’s gaze drops like a stone. A heavy, expectant beat and Renard pulls back. 

“I get it,” Renard says, straightening his cuffs, wearing unattainable like armour. Monroe can breathe again, but that’s not as much a relief as it should be.

***

So things are weird between him and Nick. Nick’s, like...tender. Quiet, careful. Solicitous. He’s got woobie eyes (to be fair, Monroe’s not quite sure what that means but it’s something Hap said once that sounds appropriate). The cautious way Nick moves around him makes him want to cause destruction on a massive scale.

So basically, Monroe’s trying not to be a complete spaz _and_ trying to ignore his more protective animalistic instincts. Which means he’s stress baking. A lot. (He usually hates making bread but he bakes three different kinds and then two more when he hears the noises Nick makes at dinner.) It has the bonus effect of keeping him in one place for most of his free time, so everyone knows exactly where he is.

Predictably, the whole thing devolves into a giant game of Avoidance. (Renard, the bastard, seems mostly amused by the entire situation; he takes most of Monroe’s baking efforts to the station.)

And this is why Monroe pretty much misses Nick’s second crash.

He misses the way Nick’s appearance becomes brittle around the edges, tension lines taking up permanent residence around his mouth and eyes. How he spends more and more of his time curled up in his bed, how he’s not actually reading the books he pages through, how he flinches from loud or unexpected sounds. Luckily Renard’s around and on the ball, so the fallout is minimal. (Later, upon reflection, Monroe will feel guilty that he was irritated--not jealous--when Renard started spending so much time with Nick.)

He’s in the grocery store when he gets a text from Renard, a simple _come home_ , lacking in both punctuation and capitalization. He abandons his mostly full cart and breaks more than a few laws getting home. He hears the deep, full-body sobs all the way downstairs and takes the steps two at a time, doesn’t hesitate just slides into the bed on Nick’s other side, forming a barrier against the rest of the world.

He looks over at Renard and realizes he’s fully creatured-out, fox eyes glittering. He smells of helpless frustration which Monroe understands all too well. This is not something they can fight. Their teeth and claws can’t banish Nick’s grief. They’re both used to dealing with problems directly--sometimes brutally. Without really thinking about, Monroe reaches over and slides his fingers over the worry lines at the corner of Renard’s eyes, smooths them away as best he can.


	4. Chapter 4

Nick starts acting more like Nick, but as with this whole situation it feels like two steps forward, one-and-a-half steps back because Nick’s having nightmares. He doesn’t have screaming, flailing, eyes-wide-open kind of nightmares that would bring Monroe or Renard running in a heartbeat. No, he has body frozen, quiet whimpers, silent tears-streaming-down-his-face kind of nightmares that he suffers through for who knows how long before Monroe, in a fit of insomnia, smells Nick’s fear before the soft sounds of distress filter through the door.

Nick wakes with a soft gasp, his eyes red-rimmed, and they don’t speak when he rolls on his side, curled into a quivering ball. Monroe sits on the bed, above the blankets, back against the headboard, running his hand lightly over Nick’s tense shoulders. He keeps watch all night, even after Nick falls asleep, and tries to keep Nick’s demons at bay.

Renard’s jaw tenses in a frankly alarming way when Monroe tells him what happened. Monroe’s pretty much managed to forget the whole “Prince of Portland” thing, but it’s harder to ignore when he’s staring at him. (And he will never confuse “Renard” with “the Prince.” Not possible.)

He watches dumbly as his Prince walks away, clearly on a mission and headed straight for Nick. There’s silence in the house, ominous and thick with tension. Monroe holes himself up in his office and plays to try and calm himself, but everything sounds tense and frenetic and now he’s just frustrated on top of anxious. He’s not really sure why, though, because Renard has put far too much of his personal time and effort into getting Nick better for this to end poorly.

When he finally ventures downstairs Renard and Nick are sitting close together at the kitchen table, Nick leaning slightly against Renard (and it is Renard, not Portland’s protector, sitting at the table). There are cups of cold tea in front of them. Nick looks worn and exhausted but in a more natural, sleep-will-fix-this kind of way than usual bone-deep, unrelenting exhaustion of depression and loss.

Nick glances up at his entrance, then ducks his head, color stealing over his cheeks. The look Renard gives him makes Monroe feel like prey.

\---

The next night, Nick climbs into his bed around 2 AM, smelling of stale sweat and terror. Neither of them says anything, and Nick falls asleep pretty quickly. Monroe rests his hand on Nick’s back and if he dreams again Monroe doesn’t know. It’s the start of a pattern. Whenever Nick has a nightmare he crawls in bed with Monroe. 

Monroe wants to ask if being there when Nick goes to sleep would help, keeping him from dreaming at all, but that’s not what they do. Nick’s still so fragile. Monroe doesn’t want to do anything to upset him or jeopardize what healing he’s managed.

Though when Renard spends the night now he always sleeps in Nick’s room. Monroe’s not sure what to make of that.

***

“Hey.” Monroe motions Nick in with his tweezers. He’s not doing anything too terribly complicated to this clock, just setting the final gears. Nick watches him for a little while, perched on the chair Monroe had specifically bought for him after he realized how much Nick enjoys watching him work. He glances at Nick out of the corner of his eye after the silence stretches between them.

“So?” he prompts. Nick sometimes loses track of time. He’s gotten better, but they try to keep him as grounded as possible.

“Right, so.” Nick glances away, fidgets, picks at invisible strings on his clothes. “I just...wanted to ask you a question.” Well that doesn’t sound dire or anything. Monroe sets a gear and then carefully lays down his tools. He takes off his magnifier and turns to face Nick.

“Of course, man. You can ask me anything.” Nick cocks his head and looks dubious. “Seriously. I’m an open book.” The way Nick’s eyes scan down his body makes Monroe feel hot. He shifts and clears his throat. Nick fixes him with guileless blue-grey eyes looking far too innocent for anyone’s health.

“Are you and Renard together?” Monroe chokes on air.

“What? I don’t, why would you--? But--we don’t.” Nick’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind so Monroe clears his throat and forces himself to be coherent. “No. We’re, uh, definitely--no.” He can feel his face heating. Why is he blushing? He’s only telling the truth.

Nick tilts his head to one, gaze considered and measuring, then tilts it the other way. His eyes run over Monroe’s body like a touch, no part of him left unscrutinized. Monroe realizes he’s holding his breath, anticipating...something.

“Hmmm.” That...was not it.

“What?! What does that mean, ‘hmm?’ What kind of a ‘hmmm’ was that? That sounded like a judgmental ‘hmm’!” Nick’s eyes go wide and the muscles around his mouth twitch, and if Monroe has just sent him into another spiral of despair he is going straight to Hell, do not pass Go. He shuts his mouth with a click and stares at Nick in wide-eyed panic.

It takes him a minute to realize Nick’s, Nick’s _smiling._ Just a little, but it reaches his eyes and that’s the first time Monroe’s seen it in...far too long. And the long he sits there, stupefied by this turn of events, the wider Nick’s smile grows until it lights up his whole face and he looks like _Nick_ , the absurd baby Grimm brimming with too much enthusiasm and so determined to do the right thing no matter what.

Nick leans in and Monroe mirrors him automatically, still captivated by that smile.

“That’s not what Renard said.”

Monroe’s brain can only handle so much unexpected stimulus at once, and he’s stuck on the smiling thing like a broken record, so Nick’s left the room by the time his words register. And then Monroe spends a stupid amount of time gaping at the place Nick used to be because _what?_ No, seriously, _what?_ There is no universe where that comment makes any sense.

And by the time he finds the wherewithal to ask Nick, the moment’s way, way over and it would be weird and awkward to bring it up out of the blue. Especially if he was joking. (He was probably joking.)

***

Monroe can’t get Nick’s words out of his head. They’re always there, hanging out in his brain like burrowing brain worms. 

The problem is he doesn’t know what it _means._ The only thing he knows is that Renard is scheming--he’s a Reineke Fuschbau, they are _always_ scheming about something, but this involves him (and Nick) and he’s going to figure it out. But his quest for answers gets derailed when Nick has several bad days in a row. It’s all Monroe can do to get him out of bed and into a change of clothes.

It’s amazing how draining worrying about someone is. Almost like Nick’s an energy-and-happiness sinkhole. Monroe falls into bed each night exhausted, and wakes up the same. Nick hasn’t crawled in with him after nightmares lately; from what he can tell, Nick’s just staying up as much as he can, deep black circles taking up permanent residence under his eyes. Even with Renard there Monroe wakes up at 3:30 AM and ventures down for a glass of water, only to find Nick staring sightlessly at an infomercial on TV.

He stops eating and Monroe comes home from a shopping expedition to find Nick passed out amongst the remnants of his meager liquor collection. He’s never been so thankful he hates hard liquor and doesn’t keep much of it around.

That’s the night Monroe loses it. After he puts Nick to bed (sans alcohol poisoning, that nurse’s training came in handy) he draws himself a bath and sinks underneath the water and screams until the water floods his mouth, threatens to go down his lungs. When he sits up Renard’s sitting on the toilet, in his dress pants and undershirt, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

“I can’t,” Monroe says, and it feels like weakness. He draws his legs up to his chest and rests his head on his knees. Renard kneels on the floor and slides an arm across Monroe’s shoulder, the other following the curve of Monroe’s arm around his legs. He butts his head against Monroe’s, rubbing against him until he lifts his head and responds.

When their lips meet it’s expected and unsurprising. Chaste as kisses go--not even any tongue--but it feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done. It ends naturally, easily, and Monroe rests his head against Renard’s with a sigh. Renard reaches up and cradles Monroe’s head, thumb sweeping over cheekbone and day-old stubble.

They stay like that for a while, Renard’s thumb tracing restless circles against Monroe’s skin.

Eventually the water cools and Monroe starts shivering. Renard hands him a towel and then disappears into the bedroom. He’s left a pair of flannel pants and a worn shirt on the sink; when Monroe makes it out of the bathroom, he’s also turned down the bed.

Renard slides beneath the covers and curls around Monroe that night. Monroe keeps trying to bring up Nick, who surely would be better served by Renard’s presence, until Renard morphs into his true face and sinks his teeth into the skin of Monroe’s neck in a very definitive show of dominance.

“Okay,” Monroe sighs, feeling ridiculously, selfishly pleased. He gives in, going limp and unresisting under Renard’s weight. Renard runs his tongue over the light marks he left behind, pleased, and they settle in to sleep. Monroe realizes he found his answer without even trying.

Nick’s right, and he’s wrong. They’re not together like Nick means it. But somewhere along the line, Renard claimed him. And for the first time since he Reformed, Monroe has an Alpha. For the first time in his life, he has one that deserves the title.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning Renard prods him out of bed, hands him a large mug of coffee, a packed duffle bag, a list of errands and orders not to come back until 6 at the earliest. Number one on the list--the only point not food--is an address and a time thirty minutes from now. Monroe laughs out loud when it turns out to be an advanced Pilates class. By the end of the hour he’s sweaty and smelly and pretty high on life. Relaxed in a way only physical exertion can manage.

On a whim he drives forty-five minutes to his favorite trail and walks the whole thing, a four hour loop through the woods. He only sees six other people and only one of them is wearing red. His muscles hate him.

He’s in an utterly fantastic mood as he moves carefully through Food Front and Whole Foods, gathering everything on Renard’s list and whatever tickles his fancy. He also raids the cheese samples at Whole Foods and takes perhaps more than he should but they’re all so good. He buys a bunch of them to make up for eating all the samples and has the sommelier suggest a few wines to pair.

He’s still feeling pretty good when he shoulders the front door open, weighed down by bags. He stops short when he sees Nick, shame faced, huddled on the sofa. The look he gives Monroe is one of abject misery. Seems like Renard’s been busy.

“Hi?” Monroe offers tentatively, kicking the door shut. No reason to make this harder that it’s already going to be. Nick flinches and pulls in on himself even more. Monroe sighs. So much for that. He starts towards the kitchen.

“I’m sorry.” Nick directs it at the floor. He looks so broken Monroe’s first instinct is to reassure him. Monroe opens his mouth, platitudes on the tip of his tongue, but he shuts it with a snap. It’s _not_ okay. He never wants to walk in on Nick like that again, never wants to spend frantic minutes trying to make sure he’s not going to die. That he’s still breathing. Monroe glances away and shrugs. If he says something, he’ll probably regret it.

Nick steps up to him, grabs him by the arms. (He’s too far in Monroe’s space, should be setting off all kinds of territorial alarms but all Monroe wants to do is lean in and gorge his senses on all things Nick.) He’s every inch the earnest, vehement Grimm, even _smells_ sincere.

“I know that’s not enough. And that you have no reason to believe me, but it won’t happen again. I swear.” It’s hard to sort out his head because a large part of him wants to snarl at Nick, draw blood with his words, force penance on him. He also wants to forgive Nick for everything, make things right within his pack.

He goes with option C because in the end, he has to trust Nick. He doesn't have a choice, really, but beyond that, he _wants_ to be able to trust Nick. (And he has a sinking feeling that Nick doesn’t trust himself.) So they’ll start with trust and work up towards forgiveness.

“Okay.” It comes out dry and cracked so Monroe clears his throat and tries again. “Okay. I get to bite you if you do it again, though.” Nick lets out a ragged laugh and steps away. Monroe resists the urge to follow.

“Yeah. That’s fair. You, uh, need some help with those?” Monroe hands him the bag with all the bottles just to be contrary. He’s decided to take Nick at his word, not forgive him.

Renard glances at them when they come in, a deceptively blank expression on his face, aloof and unapproachable in his suit with his arms crossed over his chest. Nick blushes and looks away, the sour scent of shame creeping back. Monroe likes that about as much as the unrelenting sadness so he chucks the bag with the cheese at Renard as a distraction.

Only Renard is so deep in intimidation mode that he doesn’t quite manage to move his arms in time. He catches the bottom of the bag just as it’s arcing downwards and cheese rains down around him. A wheel of goat cheese disappears under the table.

The three of them stand there for a moment, taking in the scene, the highlight being the stunned look on Renard’s face. How _dare_ the cheese fall against his will?

And then Nick starts to laugh. Really laugh, the kind that starts deep down in his belly. It’s bright and wonderful and startlingly beautiful. So _right._ It’s like a pall’s been lifted from the house. Monroe starts giggling, tries to bite it back but Nick’s doubled over, red-faced with laughter, Renard looks absolutely murderous, and he’s just watched the Prince of Portland get bested by a bag full of cheese which is just--it would be criminal not to laugh. An offense to wesen everywhere.

He and Nick end up leaning against each other, Renard’s best glare doing nothing to suppress their mirth, tears falling from their eyes. (And Monroe sees the way Renard’s lips twitch, how they want to curl up but he’s got a role to play and he takes his duties seriously.) Every time they seem to be stopping they look at each other, or the sun glints of the gold packaging at Renard’s feet, and they’re gone again, feeding off each other and laughing like idiots. Monroe wipes at his eyes, his face hurts and it feels like he’s gone another round of Pilates but damn, it feels good. Almost like a high.

Nick eventually collects himself enough to crawl underneath the table and retrieve the errant goat cheese. Monroe notices that Renard’s attention is fixed rather firmly on the only part of Nick they can see and rolls his eyes. He steps up to Renard and presses against him. He rubs his cheek against Renard’s and when he steps back Renard’s smiling affectionately.

They’re both right where Nick left them by the time he climbs back from underneath the table, eyes bright and holding the cheese aloft in triumph.

\---

They...settle, after that. It’s the only word Monroe can think of to describe the easy way they move around each other.

Nick’s making an _effort._ That’s not to say he was slacking off or anything, but there’s a marked difference between Before and After. He doesn’t wait to be pulled out of his funks, doesn’t let the sadness overwhelm him before he seeks them out. It’s weird to realize how absent and passive Nick was until he’s not anymore.

Monroe still has a small panic attack every time Nick leaves the house, even when they're together, but he’s working on it.

***

Renard walks in the den and climbs onto Monroe’s lap.

“Holy shit, what happened?” Monroe asks. Renard doesn’t usually initiate contact so blatantly. He likes to entice, woo, and manipulate others into doing what he wants. The only other time Monroe can think of was after that horrible kidnapping case, so Monroe’s justifiably concerned. But as Renard’s pretty controlled--he hasn’t been pushed dangerously close to a breaking point--Monroe keeps calm and lets him push and prod until Monroe’s exactly where he wants him. Which turns out to be tucked into the corner, Renard straddling his hips, his body pinning Monroe in place. Monroe rests his hands lightly on Renard’s hips and bares his throat; he’s quite clear on who’s the alpha here.

Renard hums in approval and scrapes his teeth lightly over Monroe’s throat, forcing his head back a little further than is comfortable.

“Hank’s coming to see Nick.” It takes Monroe a minute to place the name

“Here?” he asks, already feeling his territorial instincts rise. He hands tense on Renard’s hips; if he were human he’d have a series of very impressive bruises in the shape of Monroe’s fingertips.

“You’d prefer somewhere else?” Renard asks dryly. Monroe growls, then yelps when Renard nips at him with sharp little teeth. He gets the genius of Renard’s sit-on-Monroe-before-telling-him-bad-news plan.

“Why?” Monroe says, and it comes out just as petulant as he thought it would.

“I’ve stalled him long enough, and Nick wants to see him.”

“Stalled?” Renard pulls away then, shifting his weight onto Monroe’s knees and looming.

“Did you think the whole department was just ignoring him?” Monroe...hasn’t really considered anyone outside of their pack. “I’ve been passing them all updates.”

“Oh.” Monroe totally deserves the unimpressed look Renard’s directing at him right now. “And Hank’s special?”

“He’s Nick’s best friend and coming to see him on Thursday.” Monroe lets out a short, barely audible growl. “Down boy.” And something about that phrase, the way Renard says it, suddenly fills the room with tension. Monroe swallows thickly and tries to control himself, but it gets much more difficult when Renard’s eyes go a little gold around the edges.

“This looks like it’s going well.” Monroe startles and moves to stand but Renard plants a hand in the center of his chest and shoves him back, growling softly, a clear command to stay. Monroe glances frantically between Renard and Nick.

“Monroe has agreed not to freak out when Hank stops by.”

“What? I have not!” Renard looks at him, the weight of his gaze as real as the claw-tipped fingers digging into the front of Monroe’s shirt. There’s nothing overtly threatening in the gesture but Monroe feels the expectation of compliance and consequences of failing. His muscles tense but there’s really not much more he can do to show his submission, so the desire to prove himself manifests in a quiet, desperate whine. Renard slides his hand up around Monroe’s throat and gently strokes the skin underneath his chin.

“Monroe will not freak out when Hank is here,” Renard says, his voice hypnotic. Monroe lets out a shuddery breath that Renard seems to take as agreement. He opens his eyes into slits and takes in the pleased, smug expression on Renard’s face.

“Renard promises the same,” he says. He hears Nick choke back a laugh. Renard’s hand tightens minutely around his neck but Monroe isn’t scared. (It may just send a thrill down his spine that pools warm and tingly in his belly.) He lets a smirk slowly make its way onto his face because he has Renard’s number. He puts up an impeccable front but Monroe _knows_ the thought of Hank in their space is rubbing Renard the wrong way.

“Renard?” Nick prompts. Monroe feels the growl in Renard’s chest even though it’s not given voice.

“I will not freak out when Hank’s here,” Renard mutters grudgingly. “Much.”


	6. Chapter 6

Monroe stares at the doorway to the living room. His fingers drum restlessly against the table.

“I will bite your fingers off,” Renard snaps. Red eyes meet gold and hold. There’s a burst of sound from the living room and they both zero in on the doorway.

“You’re growling,” Monroe says, glaring in the direction of his living room.

“You’re exposed.” Monroe shakes off his wolf-face and scowls. He drums his fingers on the table. Renard lunges and pins Monroe’s hand against the wood, the sound of his warning growl filling the air. Monroe’s wolf comes forward in reaction to Renard’s fox, the two of them snarling at each other. They stare, breath mingling, one movement away from violence. The bones of Monroe’s hands grate together painfully. “Do you think they need refreshments?”

 _“Yes,”_ Renard says, releasing him. The tension slides away quickly when they both have something else to concentrate on. They rummage through the fridge and throw together a fairly respectable plate of crackers, fruit and hummus. They move as quietly as possible because Renard is technically not here--it would be a little tough to explain to Hank why Renard’s hanging around with Nick’s live-in nurse/friend type person, and Renard’s not playing chaperone. So Monroe’s the only one who gets to check on Nick and rip Hank apart if he’s fucking things up.

Monroe picks up the platter but Renard blocks the exit, looks like he wants to say something but shuts his mouth before he actually says anything. Monroe nudges him with his shoulder. Renard scowls and pulls away under the pretense of straightening his clothes but Monroe sees past the façade, straight to the worry. “I’ll make some coffee.”

He thinks about objecting as both Nick and Renard react to the coffee maker like it’s rocket science, but, as much as he likes it, the machine is a small price to pay for Hank’s life. And it’ll keep Renard well occupied while Monroe’s busy.

“Uh, hey, I thought you might like--” Monroe freezes, a growl rising in his throat. Nick’s been crying. Monroe glares at Hank and dumps the hors d'oeuvres in Hank’s lap. The man yells and springs up, but Monroe’s entire focus is on Nick.

“I’m fine,” Nick says with a watery smile. Yes, because Nick’s been such a fine arbitrator of _fine_ up until now.

“Not,” Monroe says. Monroe will check that for himself, thank you very much. He runs his hands over Nick because he can’t help himself; he knows, intellectually, that Nick’s not physically injured. And this is not even close to the most distressed Monroe’s seen Nick. 

Nick swats his hands away, and when that doesn’t work he captures Monroe’s hands, a much tender hold that mirrors Renard’s almost perfectly. Holds them still and pins Monroe with his gaze, eyes bloodshot but clear.

“I’m. Fine.” Monroe leans forward and takes a discreet sniff. Nick smells primarily of grief and sadness, which isn’t anything new. Not appreciably worse but Monroe’s still suspicious. So Monroe decides to take him at his word and pulls out a handkerchief. Nick chuckles and hides it as a cough.

“Thanks,” he says. Monroe would really like to know what’s so funny. It better not be his handkerchiefs, they’re easier on the nose than tissues and better for the environment.

Hank clears his throat and Monroe stiffens; he’d forgotten about Nick’s partner and his territorial instincts rear up again. Monroe slowly turns until he can see Hank. Weak, human, easily killed Hank.

“So everything’s going well out here?” Monroe asks pointedly, baring his teeth at Hank in what might pass for a smile to a human.

“It’s fine,” Nick says, touching Monroe’s arm lightly.

“You use fine a lot. I don’t think it means what you think it means,” Monroe tells him. Hank laughs.

“He’s got you there, partner.” The world turns red around the edges and Monroe’s claws sink into the couch cushions. Nick prods him sharply in the back, right above his kidneys, and warning that Monroe ignores.

A suspicious clanging sound from the kitchen that distracts them all.

“Is there someone else here?” Hank asks, nonplussed.

“What? No. Of course not. Why would there be. Anyone else here. Just you and me. And Nick. Nope, nobody else.” Hank blinks at him.

“Monroe’s coffee maker is possessed,” Nick says, rolling his eyes. He gives Monroe a light tug towards the kitchen. “And Monroe is going to go _unpossess it_.”

“That’s not even a word, you go do it,” Monroe says. “Why don’t you go?” Nick glares at him, _no way in hell am I leaving you alone with Hank_ writ on every obstinate line of his body. 

“Your coffee maker doesn’t like me,” Nick says through gritted teeth.

“I think it likes you just fine,” Monroe counters. “Better than fine.” Nick cocks his head, brow furrowing.

The sound of the steamer going off followed by liquid hitting the ground reaches their ears. Monroe weighs the outcome of leaving Nick alone with Hank and leaving Renard alone with his coffee maker. A yelp of pain blends in with the high pitched whine of heated air flowing through a small space.

“I’m going to go take care of that,” he says, stumbling over Nick’s legs awkwardly in his haste.

“Yes. Good,” Nick says, just a hint of smugness creeping in. Monroe makes sure to knock his foot into Nick’s knee. Nick curses in German--who thought the little Grimm had it in him?

“You sure that guy is a nurse?” he hears Hank ask behind him.

Then he walks into a warzone.

“Your machine is evil,” Renard hisses. Monroe gapes. There is coffee dripping off the counter and pooling on the floor, the machine is steaming, and there’s frothed milk everywhere. Including Renard’s pristine pressed pants. Renard’s hands are bright red, no doubt burns from overheated water. Monroe starts snickering.

“What, exactly, are you laughing at, blutbad?” Renard says, every inch the snobbish royal. It just makes Monroe laugh harder, doubled over in an effort to keep his laughter from being heard in the living room. Renard glares, but it’s half-hearted and resigned.

“I cannot believe it splooged on you,” Monroe says, gasping for air. Renard looks down at his pants. Monroe can see his jaw working back and forth and the vein in his temple jumps. He looks back up and fixes Monroe with an expression usually directed at recalcitrant teens. It just makes things worse, choked and almost pained sounds escaping Monroe.

“Monroe? Everything okay?” Nick calls out from the living room.

“F-fine!” Monroe manages. “Loose screw.” Renard’s lips press together in a thin unamused line, a fair approximation of anger but missing the sharp-sour scent that should accompany it. Anyone else and Renard would have already eviscerated them.

There should fireworks or a bright beam of light or _something_ to mark the occasion. But this is real life so all they get is Monroe’s grin, wide and unfettered, as the pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know existed click into place and he can see the whole picture, the forest and the trees. Renard _has_ been scheming, and it’s a crazy, mad-cap, wonderful idea that might just work out brilliantly. It’s something Monroe wants-maybe-needs, so much that he hasn’t really let himself think about it but Renard knew. Renard figured it out ages before him or Nick, and he’s _making it happen_ and Monroe just...he wants...

Renard’s frowning for real now, suspicious of whatever bon humor has overtaken Monroe, looking at him warily as he approaches.

“Nick knows you’re one of us.” Yeah, so he’s a little slow on the uptake. Renard seems to think so too. But he didn’t realize how weird it was for Nick to just accept Renard’s display of dominance on the couch until just now, okay? “You told him _who you are.”_ That’s an educated guess, but he can’t imagine Renard admitting his wesen heritage without tacking on “oh, and also, royalty” at the end.

“Weeks ago,” Renard says, amused.

Monroe kisses him, crowds him back against the counter and uses his arms to cage him in. Renard pulls back after a moment, searching for something. For Monroe’s epiphany, and it must be right because he smirks and pulls Monroe into another kiss, deeper and more intense than before.

They lose themselves, just a little, because the next thing he’s aware of--other than Renard’s mouth on his--is Nick.

“Whoa.” Nick’s eyes are wide with surprise. His pupils are wide with something else, which a deep inhalation confirms. He feels Renard’s quiet huff of laughter. The bastard must have been laughing at them for the longest time, the slow peons he pulled into his orbit without even realizing. “Um. Hank took off. I. Just, uh. Sorry.” He beats a hasty retreat, face bright red.

“Too soon?” Monroe asks. The coffee machine gives an angry, broken gurgle and the heavy cappuccino filter falls right on Monroe’s hand. It’s Renard’s turn to laugh.


	7. Chapter 7

After a couple of days Nick stops acting like he expects to walk in on them making out, his slightly hunted look turning thoughtful with a heavy dose of suspicion. It’s kind of funny to watch Nick put the pieces together knowing what he’ll end up with. What _they’ll_ end up with.

It’s kind of terrifying to think that he’ll have pack again. (“A _skulk,_ Monroe. It’s a far more accurate term.” “For you, maybe.”) A small, kind of unusual pack, but undeniably his.

At this point, Monroe’s lived more of his life without than with. He’s spent a lot of that time convincing himself he’s okay. That he is, if not happy, at least content. He had his clocks and his territory and a quiet life, which was all he needed until a baby Grimm barged into his life and accused him of murder. He fought it, as much as he could, but Nick got under his skin and when he’s brutally honest with himself--usually in bed, late at night when he can’t buy the lies he tells himself--he didn’t have to invite Nick in for that first chat. He could have shut Nick down, run him out of his territory, withheld information. He’s chased people away before.

Instead, he let Nick interrupt his well-honed routine, shred it to bits even before he moved into Monroe’s house. And honestly, he thought _that_ would be harder to get used to, one person in his space much less two. Moving things, forcing Monroe to bend and change, loud and intrusive. And it’s all of that, but it’s also rich food-smells, too much warmth when they’re all three in a bed, Nick’s not-so-secret love of terrible soaps. They make what came before look bleak and--heh--grim.

He doesn’t think he gets a do over on this. Even if they fracture apart in the worst of ways, he won’t forget the warmth that fills him when Renard lays a hand on his back, or how it feels to make Nick smile. The simple pleasure of cooking for three, the way the house feels when they’re all in it, even if they’re not in the same room. He managed the first time because the bad was really bad and the good always came at a price, steeped in violence. Before Renard and Nick, he...didn’t really _know_ that good could come without blood and death lurking around the corner. And the very thought of losing them makes him tread carefully, try desperately not to fuck shit up.

So no. No do overs. But that’s okay because he doesn’t really want one.

***

Nick still has his bad days, but they’re offset by a handful of good days and most days just being _days._ Generally, Monroe can tell the kind of day it’s going to be based on how Nick sits in on his cello practices. He’s taken to playing every morning, if only for 20 minutes, the rich notes of his cello filling the space between them. It’s the most accurate barometer of Nick’s moods that they have.

If Nick doesn’t show at all it’s the kind of bad day that means Monroe’s wolf sits close to the surface (closer, really, he’s on edge all the time these days), ready to rip out the throat of anyone who upsets his mate and keyed to the scent of blood. If he sits out in the hall Monroe takes point, orbiting unobtrusively around the edges of Nick’s space, just keeping watch and letting Nick know he’s not alone. A silent, unengaged Nick is all Renard’s, poking and prodding Nick until he reacts.

Most often, Nick sits quietly in the room tapping his fingers with the music and gives Monroe one of his small, precious smiles at the end before slipping away. The best days are when Nick tries to coax Monroe into ‘one more song.’ (It’s never just ONE more song, and more often than not Monroe plays until his hands cramp because it’s _Nick._ )

It’s one of these days, Nick pestering for more and Monroe feeling particularly uninspired, when he asks Nick if there’s anything he’d like to hear. After a moment, Nick requests “something with fight.” Just to be an ass, Monroe starts playing a cello version of _Smooth Criminal_ he cribbed off YouTube. Nick blinks at him, stunned, and then throws his head back in deep, booming laughter. It’s so loud Renard drifts in, eyebrows raised, and decides to stay. Nick starts playing the air drums, headbanging away, and Renard starts singing with the same competence he demonstrates in everything else, and by the end of it they’re all grinning like idiots.

It starts a pattern wherein Nick requests something incredibly vague and Monroe picks the music to match. (Nick picked ‘white’ once, which, come on, so _of course_ Monroe played ‘White Christmas’ which just punished them both. No more colors.) Most of the time Monroe picks something classical, but more and more he mixes it up with the modern and unexpected, like when Nick said he was in an epic mood and Monroe played the _Game of Thrones_ melody. (Granted, it kind of went over both their heads as neither of them have seen the show and Monroe got three chapters into the book before it started collecting dust on his bedside table, but the theme song is undeniably epic.)

He never had that much official training aside from the basics, so he actually knows quite a few pop songs. They were easier to learn and the music was already in his head, so he spent a lot of nights doing YouTube searches when he was first starting out. It’s nice to bring them out and dust them off. Relive a few of his collegiate memories.

Then out of the blue Nick says, “Something that reminds you of me.” Monroe’s bow creaks under the strain of his grip. There are so many answers he could give, so many time he’s imagined this very scenario, but his brain’s caught on one melody, the notes so vivid he swears he can already hear them. 

A little furrow starts between Nick’s eyes when he takes too long so Monroe turns away, takes a deep breath, and plays the main melody of Apocalyptica’s _Hope_ , perhaps a bit slower than the original, and absolutely does not read anything into anything. Even as he’s playing he thinks of about a hundred classics that would be appropriate but he’s still playing something written by a former Metallica cover band because...that’s the first thing he thought of.

The final notes fades into silence and Monroe has to force himself to breathe again. He shakes out his hand, and only when he feels a little more settled does he look at Nick. He gasps at the heat in Nick’s eyes, something he hasn’t seen recently, and never directed at him. Nick holds his gaze--Monroe couldn’t look away of his own volition if his life depended on it--for a handful of heartbeats before leaning back and letting the moment go.

It takes ages for Monroe’s heart to slow and longer for his hands to stop shaking.

***

Nick drops a bomb on them without any warning, a few weeks after Hank.

“I want to go back to work.” Renard lays down his fork and fixes Nick with an even, neutral look. Monroe glances between them, letting Renard field this one because he first instinct is to tell Nick no way in hell and lock him away where nothing can turn him back into that empty shell. The way Renard clamps down on his legs, just a hint of claws in warning, makes him think he’s not doing a great job of hiding that. He’s going to eat Hank next time he comes by.

“Why?” Renard asks. Nick shrugs, pushing food around his plate and not looking at them. “Nick. I need to know if we’re having this conversation as your boss or as your...friend.” Nick hunches in on himself.

“Can’t you be both?” he mumbles into the table. He misses the way Renard’s features flicker. That’s a big fat no. Renard hides it better, but the thought of Nick leaving the safety of their den makes his hackles rise just as much as it does Monroe’s. 

“You’re one of the best detectives I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving with and I’ve been holding your place. You’re welcome to come back whenever you’re ready.” Nick looks up and smirks, one side of his lips twisting up wryly.

“Hank terrorizing my replacement, Captain?” Monroe feels his eyes bleed red and a low, barely-audible rumble builds in his chest, responding to his own protectiveness and the tensions in his pack. Nick, proving once again that he has no sense of self-preservation, rolls his eyes and flicks Monroe on the ear. Monroe snaps at Nick’s wrist with wolf-sharp teeth and the moron laughs like this is all a joke.

“Monroe,” Renard says softly. 

He growls and pushes away from the table; every instinct he has is telling him to put Nick on his back, press his teeth against his throat until Nick whines in submission, then grab him by the scruff and drag him some place defensible. And Nick’s making _jokes._

He escapes to his room because if he goes outside he’s going to run the perimeter of his territory, which isn’t large enough to satisfy him and it’s too bright out not to scare the shit out of the neighbors. He thumps around his room, cracks the medicine cabinet mirror, and when he comes out of the bathroom Renard’s sitting on the end of the bed.

Monroe moves fast, his wolf right at the surface, and pins Renard to the bed. Renard lets him, eyes flashing gold. He lets Monroe rake his teeth over vulnerable skin, blood pounding close to the surface. Allows Monroe cover him with his body, tuck him protectively underneath Monroe’s bulk. Arches his neck submissively and Monroe _knows_ that doesn’t come easily to him. 

He breathes in Renard’s scent and waits out the red-wash of protective fury. It takes a while before the light touch of Renard’s hands up and down his back shifts from soothing to something else.

“He doesn’t understand,” Renard says, his voice a mesmerizing counterpart to his touch. Monroe hufs and buries his head in the crook of Renard’s neck, winds his hands beneath his packmate’s body, more octopus than wolf. Renard laughs at the indignity.

“I know,” he sighs. In their world but not of it. He pulls back just a little as a thought occurs to him. He and Renard are of a height, which is a first for Monroe and lends itself to interesting possibilities.

“What?” Renard asks.

“You know. Nick is really short.” Renard’s eyes darken, and he laughs because it’s true and they are going to have so much fun with that. Just as soon as they all get their collective act together.


	8. Chapter 8

The day Nick goes back to work Monroe is a complete mess. It’s been a little over ten months (enough time to gestate a baby! his mind unhelpfully informs him) and even knowing Renard will be right there beside Nick isn’t enough to ease the feeling of foreboding. He paces through his house. It’s too quiet, too empty. He plays the cello, but without an audience it feels empty and unappreciated. He drags his bow across the strings and they squeal in protest.

He shifts and goes for a run, trying to exorcise the excess, restless energy building inside of him. It’s not as satisfying as it usually is. He chases a rabbit but stops when he realizes he’s not just playing or practicing, but about to rip the tiny creature to pieces. He can’t even blame his bloodlust, he’s just...in a bad mood. A very, very bad mood.

He slinks back to his house and realizes, abruptly, this is the first time he’s been alone-- _really_ alone--in ages. He can’t find the energy to shift back--his emotions in this form are softer, a bit muted and easier to bear--so he lets himself in and curls up on his bed, nose tucked under his tail. He can smell Renard and Nick on the sheets, though it’s been a few days since Nick graced them with his presence. He sighs, a bit of a whine creeping in towards the end.

“Pathetic.” He curls tighter and huffs. Renard laughs at him and slips onto the bed. He’s warm and comforting. He’s in boxers and an undershirt, suit undoubtedly draped over the desk so it doesn’t wrinkle or get hair on it. Monroe lets Renard snuggle against him but doesn’t move. “You are being ridiculous.”

Monroe wuffs, tail thumping once.

“I’m the boss, I can take long lunches if I want, and you are utterly predictable.” Monroe wiggles his ear and sighs. Renard’s fingers, just a hint of his claws coming out, come up to rub against the sweet spot behind his ear. He closes his eyes in ecstasy and presses into the touch, wanting more, harder. It’s not long before Monroe’s stretched out on the bed, flush against Renard, half-dazed with pleasure. Damn that man’s magic fingers.

“Nick is doing fine. Everyone’s looking out for him. Hank--” Monroe growls reflexively, though he’s far too content to move or put any real threat behind it; Renard flicks him in the ear “--isn’t going to let him overwork himself. I made him promise.” Monroe arches back so he’s looking at Renard’s face. “And _I_ promise to keep him safe.”

Monroe licks the bottom of Renard’s chin and whuffs in laughter at the man’s affronted look. He rolls to his feet, stretches, and then flops down over Renard, dead weight.

“Monroe!” Renard pushes at him, mostly for show, and Monroe shoves his head underneath Renard’s hand just ‘cause he can. Also, it feels damn good. Renard’s got another 20 minutes before he has to go back. Monroe’s going to put him to work.

***

Nick comes home flushed with excitement and high on life. He can’t stop grinning and he tells Monroe about every second of his day in clipped, short words. He keeps drifting into Monroe’s space, which makes cooking more dangerous than it should. And Monroe still wants to growl every time Hank’s name is mentioned (which is a lot).

Renard’s off on some official Police Captain thing with the Mayor that’s going to run late, so Monroe’s left to field Nick’s mania by himself. Which isn’t bad, it just...feels wrong. Renard should be here, casually distracting Nick so Monroe can cook without threatening to skewer their favorite Grimm. It just serves to drive home how integral the three of them are. How much he needs both of them. His small, unique pack that has vastly gone over its baggage allowance.

Monroe’s musing on this as he herds Nick to bed, watching Nick bounce around his room-- _still_ talking about the case he and That Guy solved--getting ready for bed. He idly notes the planes of Nick’s stomach and chest from what feels like far away, too used to sublimating his attraction to fully appreciate the view. Same goes with Nick’s legs, loose black boxers disappearing under a pair of maroon scrub bottoms that are just a little too small--and Monroe realizes with a pang that they must have been Juliette’s, bought a little too big for those really long nights and appropriated by Nick.

Nick kisses him. It’s unexpected, unplanned, unassuming. There’s no tongue, no groping, just...the press of lips. Nick’s nose against his cheek; the rough of his stubble against Monroe’s chin.

They pull apart and Monroe reads apprehension, challenge, fear and desire in Nick’s eyes. He’s made his move, impulsively perhaps, but he did it and can’t take it back. He stands before Monroe, vulnerable and barely patched up, the glue still wet in places--but he’s not going to break. If Monroe rejects him now another pieces might chip off, the shape may be a little warped, but he’ll still be standing. Granted, Monroe was never going to say no, and this is perhaps the safest gamble ever made, but there is always that _chance_ and Nick still made his move.

A small part of Monroe wonders if this isn’t too soon, if perhaps they’re shooting themselves in the foot because it hasn’t even been a year yet and Juliette was in Nick deep enough to uproot him completely when she died. But it feels like they’ve been together so much longer than that. Like they’ve all been through a war and come out the otherside, riddled with scars and loss but still standing. Together.

Monroe grins, bright and a little wolfish. He has such _plans_ for Nick. And Renard. Nick must pick up on something because he blushes even as his own answering smile slowly spreads over his face. 

So many plans.

\---

He wakes up a little disoriented, his back protesting because he skimped a bit on the guest bed mattress. He blinks up and it takes a moment to register Renard hovering over them.

Nick’s...on his stomach tucked beneath Monroe’s arm, his face smooshed into Monroe’s side and his hair tickling Monroe’s armpit now that he’s awake. His hand lies underneath Monroe’s shirt, just over Monroe’s ribs, the skin-on-skin contact drugging.

He starts to move but Renard stops him, the corners of his lips just turned upwards. He leans over and graces Monroe with a slow, lingering kiss, not unlike Nick’s in its execution but with a more sultry, darkly seductive intent behind it. It’s a promise Monroe can’t wait to cash in.


	9. Chapter 9

“That’s creepy, man,” he mumbles, not opening his eyes. Nick laughs and Monroe burrows further into the pillows. “Beady Grimm.”

“What? That doesn't--you know what? I don’t want to know.” Monroe smiles at that. Good choice. “I, uh, think Renard made breakfast. Um. Sean.” Monroe cracks an eye open at that. Nick’s propped against the headboard looking off into space, just a hint of redness high on his cheekbones.

“You start using my first name and I will end you.” Nick looks at him, startled, and then laughs. Monroe closes his eyes again but can’t keep the grin off his face at the sound of Nick’s laughter. Or stop his stomach from growling when the heavenly scent of bacon reaches his nose.

\---

Renard has made them a veritable feast. There’s hash, bacon, eggs and pancakes. The only thing missing is the coffee, which Monroe dutifully shuffles over to make. He ignores the suspicious look Renard shoots his machine because it is _not possessed,_ that is not a real thing that exists in the world.

Whilst enjoying his perfectly brewed coffee, Monroe resolves to take his cues from Renard and Nick. This dance has officially become more complicated than he’s prepared to deal with, so he’s happy to let them lead.

Case in point: Renard crosses to the counter where Nick’s standing to get the honey. None of them actually uses honey, so it’s in the top cabinet just over Nick’s head. Renard lays a casual hand on Nick’s hip as he stretches upwards, his Portland PD tee riding up to show his stomach, balancing on the balls of his feet. Nick’s probably over stirred his coffee by the time Renard finds the honey, rolls down from his stretch and steps out of Nick’s space. When Renard joins him at the kitchen table, Monroe gives him Skeptical Eyebrow #3, “I see what you did there.” Renard answers him with a blank poker face and the slide of his bare foot up Monroe’s pant leg.

“Se-an,” Monroe warns, drawing out his name. He sees the way Renard’s eyes go dark and files that away for later. The clatter of a spoon has them both shifting their attention to Nick, who stares at them with wide eyes over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Um.”

“Nick,” Renard says, his voice like the smoothest silk. “Are you going to sit down?” Renard slides a full plate to the empty seat between them and Monroe grins. Nick blinks and Monroe has never felt more like the Big Bad Wolf in his life.

Nick moves slowly, gaze darting between them, like he’s not _quite_ sure what he’s getting himself into, or how he got here. They eat mostly in silence, Monroe and Renard sharing amused looks in between the baffled glances Nick would shoot them.

Renard casually slips a few pieces of bacon on Nick’s plate and Monroe freezes. Nick gives Renard a slightly confused smile of thanks--Renard really, _really_ likes his bacon--and eats it. Monroe’s vision goes just a little red around the edges, a slight huff of a growl underneath his breath. He knows Nick doesn’t really understand the significance of food sharing--giving or taking--but it sets off something instinctual and dangerous in him. He wants that. To provide, to take, to share kills and sustenance because they are pack.

He feels Renard’s foot press against his ankle, but he can’t look at him for fear that it might snap his tenuous control. So he takes a breath and then casually lifts a crispy strip off Nick’s plate. Renard’s foot flexes and relaxes, and Monroe can smell the mild confusion in Nick’s scent, like he knows there's something going on but he doesn't know what. They’re taking him through these little courtship rituals without explaining them, and honestly that’s half the fun. But it might just kill Monroe before they get to where they’re going.

The ringing of Nick’s cell phone cuts through the silence. There’s a moment that hangs between them before Nick shoves back from the table, chair scraping along the ground and making both Renard and Monroe wince. Monroe catches the faintest hint of arousal on Nick before he’s gone.

Renard nudges his ankle and Monroe finally looks at him, meets his gaze head on.

“Soon,” Renard promises.

“Soon,” he agrees, pressing back.

“I caught a case!” Nick says, too excited for the chill of fear that slides down Monroe’s spine.

***

Monroe tracks Nick to the edge of Forest Park. (Renard had, grudgingly and under protest, coughed up the information.) He shifts and slinks around in the shadows, watching Nick and That Guy put together the pieces of the puzzle. He sniffs around just to make sure, but this appears to be a regular human kind of crime. He catches a scent sour with sweat and violence and sneezes. Definitely the murderer, faint traces of blood mingled in the scent trail. It’s fairly old, which makes his hackles relax. Nick’s not in any immediate danger.

“Ahem.” Monroe yelps and spins around, low to the ground and ears back. Nick’s standing by a tree, arms crossed over his chest and glaring. Shit. “What do you think you’re doing here.” Monroe whines and lays down, head on his paws. “That’s not going to work.” He looks up at Nick and thumps his tail twice. “No.” He sighs and lets his ears droop. It’s a good thing he can’t smile in this form when Nick stomps over and scratches behind his ears. Push over.

“Look,” Nick says, still petting, “I’m trying not to be insulted here. But you do know I’m an adult and can take care of myself.”

Monroe snorts and then pushes his head into Nick’s hand when he stops scratching.

“I really can’t tell which part of that you object to.” Honestly, Nick should know it’s both. “Fine. I’m assuming you’ve got clothes and your car around?” Monroe lifts his head and nods cautiously. “Change and meet me in the parking lot. You can take me home.” Monroe bounds to his feet and shakes the loam off his coat. When he turns to look at Nick he’s smiling affectionately, which warms Monroe to the point where he’d be blushing if he were human. He yips and then takes off through the underbrush, Nick’s amusement following him.

\---

There’s a group of people gathered around the cordoned off trail head, taking pictures of the police cars and ambulance. It smells not unlike the crowds at the sideshow he went to in college, excitement and morbid curiosity mixing together in a very strange, very distinct scent. Considering this is a murder it makes Monroe wonder why he doesn’t eat humanity anymore.

He slides in towards the back and tries to look like he’s not someone Hank or any of Nick’s other co-workers might recognize. He’s trying to tune out the excited chatter of a group of teenagers contemplating what might have happened--and Jesus, even as an actual murderous teenage blutbad he didn’t have that kind of imagination--when he catches a scent that makes him want to growl. For a moment he’s not sure why and then it hits him--it’s the same scent he was tracking in the woods, except tinged with anticipation and aroused fear.

He casually glances around, trying to pinpoint the source. When he does he stares a moment too long because it’s...a normal looking guy he wouldn’t have looked at twice. Brown hair, brown eyes, an expression that isn’t the grossly anticipatory leering of the teenagers, but isn’t uninterested either. Just...pretty average.

There’s an excited murmuring and the cops are coming out of the woods, the victim covered by a sheet on a stretcher. The sheer number of camera phones that appear in that moment makes Monroe sick. But he’s got to figure out a way to let Nick know that his murderer is _right there_ without letting the murderer close to Nick because _no._ The whole point of this to make sure Nick was safe, not put him in the line of fire.

And when it comes down to it, Monroe will blow his “cover,” as it were, before he lets Nick get hurt again.

And then Nick’s there, watching them load up the body. He glances at the crowd, scanning. When he hits Monroe his eyes linger. And Monroe intentionally lets his mask slip. He sees Nick jerk back, confused, and deliberately turns towards the murderer, showing his fangs. The whole thing takes moments and Monroe’s wolf lurks at the surface ready to defend Nick. He watches Nick turn away and say something to Hank.

Nothing happens for several minutes. A couple of the crowd wanders away, bored (or disenchanted) with police work. Monroe’s primarily concentrating on the murderer, since he poses the greatest threat to Nick. Which is how he explains losing track of his mate. But he doesn’t get time to panic because once the ambulance takes off the murderer starts to wander away. His path takes him as close to the police area as possible before he starts winding his way through the parked cars.

Monroe follows as close as he dares--he doesn’t know where Nick is, if he’s making a play or something, but he’s not letting this arrogant asshole get away. Hell, if they get far enough away, he could always wolf out and--

Nick steps out from behind some cars with a smile, his hand on his gun, which is holstered at the small of his back. Monroe slips into the shadows and lets his claws lengthen. His fangs press awkwardly against his lips and he can hear better, see the beads of sweat on Nick’s brow. He growls when the murderer tries to step around Nick, _into his space._ Nick dances with him but steps wrong on the gravel and that little moment of unbalance is all the suspect needs to take a swing at Nick.

Before even Monroe can react Hank’s there, coming from between some of the cars and stopping the guy’s swing and tackling him to the ground. Monroe blinks, impressed. Nick’s drawn his gun, and Monroe approves wholeheartedly at the way he grinds the murderer’s face into the gravel.

Nick glances up, right to where Monroe’s hiding (but really, how does he do that?) and gives him a slight nod. Monroe has no idea what message, if any, Nick’s trying to send, so he just nods back and heads to his car to wait. He’s worked himself up by the time Nick knocks on his window, what if's spinning through his head. A murderer could have walked free if he hadn't been there and happened to smell him.

“I have to go back--”

He jacks Nick up by his collar, presses him against the car so their bodies are flush together, and kisses Nick as thoroughly as possible. Nick tangles his fingers in Monroe’s hair and pulls and oh, that’s good. Very good, so Monroe presses closer, rubbing against Nick’s thigh until it starts to hurt, the pressure and his jeans too much.

The pull apart, both panting lightly, and Nick looks _hungry._

“I may have reassessed my opinion of Hank,” Monroe says breathlessly.

“Yeah?” Nick breathes, staring at Monroe’s mouth. His tongue darts out and runs over his plump bottom lip. Monroe growls and kisses him again.


	10. Chapter 10

Nick has to go back to the station to book the perp . He tells this to Monroe’s lips as he can’t seem to tear his gaze away, which just makes Monroe smirk and lick said lips. Nick stutters over his explanation and his feet. Nick’s arousal perfumes the air and Monroe growls, wanting more.

Nick starts backing away slowly, pupils blown wide, still babbling about bookings and reports and it’s all Monroe can do not to follow him. Nick finally turns and _runs_ away, disappearing between two cars. Monroe’s already leapt forward to follow when he regains control of himself; Nick did not mean it that way. (But damn, they’re going to have to have a chat about mating habits and signals soon because Nick cannot just pull shit like that and expect Monroe--and Renard--not to respond.)

Monroe considers shifting and going for a quick run to take the edge off. Except he likes the edge. It’s something different from the holding pattern they’ve been caught in, proof that Nick’s there with them, that he’s ready. Monroe jogs once around the carpark before folding himself into the bug, for the first time feeling its restrictive size.

The drive back to the house is filled with tense anticipation that just keeps building with no outlet. Monroe can still taste Nick, keeps replaying the press of their bodies, Nick’s obvious response... He imagines chasing Nick instead of keeping himself in check, running him down and grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, mounting him and-- He’s barely thinking straight when he stalks up the path to his house. He knows Renard is here, can sense his presence, and the predator in him _wants._

“I understand, detective. I would--” Renard loses control and his human façade when he catches sight (and scent) of Monroe. “Text me updates unless it’s vitally important.”

Renard ends the call without waiting for a response and meets Monroe in the air, their bodies colliding together. Monroe makes a genuine play for dominance but is unsurprised when Renard puts him on his back in short order, knee pressing against the growing bulge in Monroe’s pants. He’s got one hand wrapped around Monroe’s wrists, keeping them pinned, and the other resting lightly against the pulsepoint in his neck. Monroe exposes his jugular in acceptance and Renard rewards him for his cooperation.

Showcasing some truly stunning flexibility, Renard practically folds himself in half, scenting Monroe from his beltline up his chest to his face. Smelling where Nick was pressed against him. Renard kisses him possessively, licks his lips and into his mouth, undoubtedly searching for whatever trace of Nick still clings to him. 

Renard’s not currently helping with the whole control thing, and Monroe’s moving rapidly towards more-blutbad-than-human. He gets his teeth on Renard’s neck and bites a nice bruise into it, one of his fangs just breaking the skin. The heady taste of Reineke blood bursts along his tongue. He growls, Renard growls back, and there’s a brief renewed struggle for dominance.

He curses when Renard presses in hard with his knee--not enough to incapacitate but enough that Monroe freezes and the pain takes the immediate edge off his arousal. Renard doesn’t let up, instead leans forward slowly, gradually putting more pressure on Monroe’s cock and balls until he’s stretched over Monroe, their noses almost touching, while Monroe givers beneath him, taut and tense, a breath away from a great deal of pain.

“I talked to Nick.” He rolls the name like chocolate in his mouth, dark and seductive. “Did you protect him like a good boy?” Monroe lets out an involuntary whuff and yelps when he accidentally moves too much. Renard must have knives for knees. Renard hums and shifts so his knee rubs against Monroe’s hardness, pleasure and pain all at once, a small smirk curling the edges of his lips. Monroe whimpers and thumps his head against the ground in frustration. Renard, the bastard, laughs at him, and keeps alternating between glorious pressure and sharp pain. It’s doing some very, very interesting things to Monroe that he’s never really considered before. “Monroe.”

He’s still cogent enough to recognize an order.

“He--with the...murderer. Smelled ‘m. Normal guy,” Monroe says through too many teeth. This is _hell._ He is in hell. Renard laughs at him, then drops his head to nuzzle at Monroe’s throat. He noses at the small gap, then bites off the buttons one by one, sharp teeth tearing easily through the threads. He occasionally lets his teeth scrape against Monroe’s skin, which, really, Monroe’s too old to be learning new kinks. But damned if he doesn’t jerk against Renard’s knee and whine in anticipation every time.

Monroe has never felt the urge to turn over for an Alpha before; he’s heard the stories, seen the way some of his people flush when they talk about _this one Alpha I knew..._ , arousal sweetening the air and their expression turning soft and dreamy. He gets it, now. The urge to please, to give. Renard must sense something, some change in Monroe’s scent, because he pulls back and settles on Monroe’s lap, long legs folded on either side of Monroe’s hips. He drags his thumb over Monroe’s lips, lightly over his teeth, and then presses down on one razor-sharp fang.

Monroe closes his eyes and savors this intimate taste of Renard, a gift freely given and rich with arousal.

“Open your eyes.” _That_ is not an order. That’s an invitation. A proposal.

Monroe lets his eyes flutter open. They’re red, Monroe balanced between human and wolf. Every sense is now attuned to Renard. Filled with him. Immersed. Monroe thinks of Renard as pack, reacts to him as such, but this is the Ritual. Monroe Imprints on him as Alpha and he will never forget his scent, his taste, his touch, the way he looks this very moment, framed by the afternoon sun filtering through the windows.

This...it carries more weight and significance than he expected. Monroe is loath to break the moment.

They hold there, suspended in time, gazes locked. The usual feeling of challenge--instinct when being faced down by a fellow predator, even if it is Renard--doesn’t come. All Monroe wants to do is gorge his senses on his new Alpha, revel in him and their connection. He wants to please and, in doing so, receive pleasure. Like he senses the urge, Renard smiles, eyes crinkling up at the edges.

Monroe sits up, taking care not to unseat Renard or lose the finger in his mouth, which he draws deeper, lets his teeth scrape teasingly against the pad. He can feel the whorls of Renard’s fingerprints. Renard settles more securely on Monroe’s lap, leaning back against his legs, letting his own legs stretch out and wrap around Monroe’s waist. He slips another finger inside Monroe’s mouth and curls them up, hooked behind the top row of Monroe’s teeth, and guides Monroe to sit straighter, until they’re almost eye-to-eye.

“Nicholas,” Renard says, voice a low growl. He doesn’t take his eyes from Monroe. “Come join us.”


	11. Chapter 11

It feels like an eternity before Nick’s footsteps, heavy on the wood floor, reach Monroe’s ears. Closer, his scent mixes with Renard’s, a heady blend of arousal. Monroe wants to look, to see proof of what he can smell. But he can’t look away from his Alpha, not while those golden eyes hold him in place. He lets out a little whimper, so torn. Renard instinctively draws his thumb over the curve of Monroe’s cheek, soothing and gentle.

“So needy,” Renard murmurs. Monroe gives a little growl and presses his teeth gently against Renard’s fingers. Renard growls back, and Monroe would flip right on his back if he weren’t held in place.

“Whoa.” Nick’s soft exhalation draws Renard’s attention and Monroe feels cold without the heat of his gaze.

“Nick.” Renard’s tone is sharp and protective. For the first time it occurs to Monroe that Nick might not agree to this. That he might say no. Monroe leans forward, into Renard, who lets him, drawing his fingers out of Monroe’s mouth and cradling the back of his head. 

“Uh. I don’t...” 

“Stay or go, Nick. Your choice.” Monroe fights down the urge to lunge at Nick, pin him to the ground and claim him because he’s _theirs_ , he is _pack_ \--except Renard’s right, Nick has a choice, and they can force him. So Monroe distracts himself by nipping along Renard’s neck, tasting him. He can’t see it but Renard’s eyes drift closed and he curls down, pressing his nose into Monroe’s hair.

“Yes,” Nick says, too loud. Monroe bites down harder than he intended, making Renard hiss and clutch him closer. Interesting. Not terribly unexpected, but certainly interesting.

“Kneel behind him,” Renard says. Nick obeys his, _their_ Alpha, the heat of his body a scorching press against Monroe’s back. The scent of the two of them, the feel, being surrounded by his pack...it’s too much. He feels the shift coming and can’t stop it.

“What’s happening?”

“Quiet. Monroe. Monroe! _Attend._ ” The command rips through him, demands his obedience and overshadows everything else. His head’s pulled back and he blinks slowly. “To me, mon loup.” He focuses on Renard and the urge recedes; he hasn’t lost control like that since he was a teenager. He can feel some of his bones shifting back into place under his skin and flushes when he realizes Nick must feel them too.

“None of that,” Renard says, coaxing Monroe to lean back into Nick. “Nick’s pack.”

“Yeah,” Nick says, sounding breathless. Monroe looks down and realizes that Renard’s clever, magical fingers have shredded his undershirt. He sees Nick’s hand appear and settle on his stomach. Renard reaches out and claims Nick’s other hand. Monroe feels drunk watching his Alpha kiss over Nick’s palm towards the wrist, his features shifting more towards his Weisen side.

“Hey!” Nick tries to jerk his hand away but Renard holds it in place. Monroe can hear the quick flutter of Nick’s heart, the fear and arousal that mix together (with the arousal a clear winner). When Renard lets him pull away, fingers interlaced with Nick’s, Monroe sees the shallow red cut across Nick’s wrist.

Monroe wants the taste and smell, let the essence of Nick sink so deep in him it becomes instinct. Somewhere above him Renard murmurs softly to Nick, then releases him. Renard’s hands run up Monroe’s thighs and settle on his hips, but even that can’t distract from the tantalizing red drops beading on Nick’s pale skin.

It takes so much self control not to lunge forward, bury his teeth as far as they’ll go to keep Nick here, keep him pinned and his. Renard’s fingers bruising his hips keep him grounded. He watches hungrily as Nick brings his wrist closer.

“Pack,” Nick says, as if to himself, lips brushing against Monroe's ear. Monroe leans forward and drags his tongue along the cut, soothing it, tasting the metallic tang. Tasting Nick. It settles into his bones, alongside Renard. Pack.

His blood thrums with it.

Renard surges forward and kisses Nick. Monroe gets a facefull of Renard’s chest, which isn’t really a bad thing. He arches up to drag his tongue over Renard’s neck, latches onto his ear and sucks. Traces the curve of it, then blows a gentle stream of cool air. He grins when Renard’s skin pimples and does it again. The third time Renard tears himself away from Nick’s mouth with a growl, presses Monroe back into Nick hard enough they almost fall and _takes_ his mouth.

“So, uh. We’re doing this.” Nick sounds a little nervous and a lot aroused. Monroe, still thoroughly occupied by Renard, flails backwards until his hand lands in Nick’s thick hair. It is just as ridiculously thick and luscious as it looks. The hand that was on his stomach moves up to circle Monroe’s nipple, never quite touching.

Monroe abruptly realized he’s pressed pretty intimately against Nick and he can _feel--_

His orgasm his so abruptly it _hurts._ It’s the best and most painful thing he’s ever experienced. He might forget that breathing is a thing he has to do with some regularity because the next thing he knows is his lungs burn, he feels like an overcooked noodle, and Nick looks very concerned--though his lap is very comfortable, if not _soft._

Monroe giggles--oh, endorphins are so nice--and Nick’s face twists into a wry half-amused look Monroe is very familiar with.

“I didn’t say you could come yet.” And abruptly Monroe goes from giggly to fully aroused. If this theme of intense pleasure-pain continues Monroe fears for his sanity.

“Wow. Is that...normal?” There’s Nick looking all concerned again. It’s cute. Monroe bops him on the nose and grins.

“First mating blush,” Renard says, sounding smug. His face appears alongside Nick’s and Monroe swears when his evil, sadistic, wonderful Alpha rubs against his incredibly sensitive erection. “Nick, what are your feelings on knotting?”

Nick’s surprised spluttering earns Monroe some much-needed breathing room. Monroe can smell the apprehension and desire on Nick, who clearly knows enough to be intrigued but it’s probably all filtered through some of his more biased ancestors. Monroe would like nothing more than to rewrite every book Nick has.

But later. Because knotting isn’t something you just spring on someone, least of all a human someone. (One of Monroe’s cousins lost his ear when he tied his mate without permission, to which his father had sagely said, “He’s thankful it was only his _ear.”_ No other lesson in his young life had stuck with Monroe so thoroughly.)

“Mean,” Monroe mutters, poking Renard. Renard grins, grabs Monroes hand and drags it over his face, into the crook of his neck, down his chest--dress- and undershirts meeting a raggedy end beneath Renard’s claws-- and then lets it rest against the bulge in his pants. Monroe growls and surges forward, scenting along the path Renard just made as best he can. They smell like each other and not enough of Nick.

He chuffs his approval when Renard grabs Nick’s hand and follows the same path.

“Scent-marking,” Renard murmurs to Nick, but Monroe is far too occupied following their hands to listen to this lecture. He takes control of Nick’s hand because it’s not enough, not yet. He rubs his face all against Nick’s hand, then guides Nick along the planes of Renard’s chest, through his hair, over the contours of their Alpha’s face. They both moan when Renard’s tongue drags along their joined fingers.

Renard pulls back, eyes flicking between the two of them.

“Pants,” he says, a sharp command that has Monroe scrambling out of their little pile with utter gracelessness. He crashes to ground when he catches his first sight of Nick: hair mussed, lips red and swollen, a small bruise on his neck. He’s simultaneously frozen with want and scrambling to follow Renard’s orders, which just results in him landing hard on his ass, elbows slamming painfully into the floor, unable to tear his eyes off of Nick.

“He’s very pretty, isn’t he?” Renard asks, sounding every inch the bored, indulged King. He reels NIck in by the front of his shirt--because Nick seems just a captivated by Monroe--and licks a wet path up Nick’s neck. Nick stretches, shows off more of his throat, and he has _no idea_ how that affects them. Their twin growls, Monroe’s pitched lower than Renard’s, probably clue him in, and Renard sucks the bruise decorating Nick’s neck with a fervor that makes their Grimm’s eyes roll.

Monroe tries to move towards them, gets tangled in his low-slung pants, wrestles them off and then just...watches them kiss. Renard and his clever, wonderful fingers have unbuttoned Nick’s pants and are rucking up his thin black tee. He must make some kind of noise because Nick lazily rolls his head and gives Nick a hooded, glazed look. Renard pants lightly against Nick’s cheek, hands moving restlessly over his stomach.

Monroe drops to all fours, his nails digging into the floorboards, and crawls forward. He kisses Nick with a hint of fang. It makes Nick’s heartbeat spike and press in greedily. Monroe protests when Nick’s mouth is suddenly pulled from his, but Renard’s there to fill the space even as he yanks Nick’s shirt over his head.

Renard steals one last kiss and then guides Nick’s lips back to Monroe’s. They kiss, fingers skimming along backs and twinning in hair, neither of them forgetting their audience of one. They move so their Alpha has a clear view of everything they’re doing, from the way Nick practically crawls in Monroe’s lap, trying to get closer, to Monroe setting Nick over one thigh and letting him rut, denim rough against his skin.

They go easily when Renard gets tired of watching and guides them down, his hand protectively curved behind Monroe’s head, directing Nick to lay atop Monroe and then arranging their legs to his pleasure. He strips off Nick’s slacks. Monroe has a religious experience when their cocks align, the musk of Nick’s scent overwhelming, and _this_ is what was missing from Renard’s scent--from all of theirs.

Nick groans and flexes his hips, thrusting shallowly, and Monroe has to look, has to see Renard bite at the flesh of Nick’s ass even as his fingers dig bruises in Monroe’s hips. He shivers when Renard nips the place on NIck’s back where, were he blutbad, one of his greatest weaknesses would reside. He imagines Nick fucking him, here on the floor, with Renard inside Nick and guiding their movements. Controlling both of them, their pleasures linked and dependent on _Renard’s_ pleasure.

He suspects, at this point, there’s nothing Renard could demand of him that Monroe wouldn’t willingly give. And knows there’s nothing Renard would ask of him that Monroe wouldn’t want to give at any other time. He’s never had an Alpha like that before and feels abruptly overwhelmed, human emotion fighting through the mating-claiming fog in his head.

“Mon loup,” Renard murmurs and quiets his turmoil with a kiss, Nick pressed comfortingly into him. Renard pulls away so Monroe can breathe and somewhere he shut his eyes. When he opens them the first thing he sees is Nick’s mercurial eyes, filled with concern.

“Okay?” he asks, voice soft. Renard’s hooked his chin over Nick’s shoulder and they’re both waiting for him. Patient as mountains and just about as immovable.

“I... Yeah,” he says, sliding a hand over Renard’s flank (Hey! No pants!) and circling a thumb over Nick’s nipple. “Perfect.”

Renard studies him for a moment, judging him, before he smiles--a purely predatory expression that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Good. Then continue.” Nick glances at Renard, bemused at the order. Monroe rolls his eyes; for all the resources Nick has at his disposal, he really doesn’t _get_ anything about being wesen. But it’s mostly kind of endearing and they have time to teach him. Renard growls, a warning and inducement all in one, so Monroe tugs their clueless Grimm down into a kiss.

“Obey the Alpha,” Monroes advises between kisses.

“‘m not--”

“You are.” Monroes says it with a passion that surprises Nick into silence, looking both pleased and unsure in the aftermath. Monroe licks over Nick’s neck and nibbles on his ear, letting his breath ghost over the trail he just left as he whispers, “Put on a show.” Nick slants a side glance at Renard, kneeling a bit away from them, watching with hungry eyes. The thin, stretchy material of his boxer briefs bulges obscenely. Nick turns his head to kiss Monroe, who catches the edges of a sly smile.

Nick’s _good_ at this, patient and methodical, testing the waters with a single minded determination that results in Monroe’s claws gouging the hardwood floor. Nick’s so good Monroe can’t even bring himself to care. Before long, Nick has him splayed wantonly on the floor, wresting groans and gasps and curses from Monroe, all for Renard’s benefit--he catches the hot, flirty looks Nick flicks Renard’s way. Before too long Renard gives Nick some signal and he pulls away, prompting Monroe to register his displeasure with a whine.

“I know,” Nick soothes, pressing his thumb against a nipple then pinching it, rolling and twisting it between his fingers. “I know. Come on.” Nick’s clever, clever hands slides from Monroe’s knee up his thigh, teasing the curve of his ass. His long, long leg settles over Nick’s hip like it’s meant to be there and Nick rolls them slightly onto their sides. The position brings them flush together, groin to groin.

Nick’s worrying a bruise at the join of Monroe’s neck when thick fingers tease at Monroe’s ass, a thumb pressing right behind his balls. Monroe throws his head back, hitting against Renard’s solid bulk, blunt fingers breaching him. It’s a lovely counterpoint to Nick’s sharp nips and unyielding pinches.

And all Monroe needs to do is lay there and take it, let them have their fun, and enjoy every second of it. He’s not even afraid of losing control any more--Renard, his Alpha, has him. Can more than take what Monroe can dish out and protect Nick at the same time. It’s liberating. And Monroe hadn’t realized he’d been caged.

“I’m going to fuck you, mon lupe,” Renard says, voice smoky and dark. “Nick’s going to be inside you, but _I’m_ going to fuck you.” Monroe gasps, muscles tensing as a fresh flood of arousal hits him. It’s a good thing he came already because he’d be in serious trouble otherwise.

“Son of a bitch,” he hears Nick breathe.

“Nicholas.” His name cracks like a whip and Nick’s fingers tighten on Monroe’s arms (he can’t wait for the bruises). Monroe lets them lay him out, watches Renard whisper instructions to Nick while his clever fingers leave red scratches over pale skin. He gives eternal thanks for his pilates workouts when Nick can easily hoist one of Monroe’s legs over his shoulders, the other settling in the crook of Nick’s arm.

“Ready?” Nick asks. Sweat wets his hair and slides down his face. His grin is boyish and teasing, all thrilled excitement and curiosity. Monroe finds himself smiling back and then Nick’s _there,_ inside of him, eyes closing and white teeth digging into his lip. Behind them, Renard’s watching, eyes almost glowing, his hands on Nick’s hips, giving Monroe time to adjust. He’s not so accommodating with Nick, who drops his head onto Monroe’s shoulder with a groan.

“Hey,” Monroe says, low and intimate, running his hand along Nick’s spine until he finds where Renard’s long, long fingers disappear into soft, hot heat. Nick jerks, which in turn makes Monroe gasp. He’s ready. He nudges Nick until he raises his head.

“Hi,” Nick says, smile spreading, pure delight. Monroe leans up and gives into his blutbad a little, nipping underneath Nick’s jaw playfully, licking a stripe up his neck and over the pulse. When he lays back down he bares his neck to Nick, who for once picks up on the cue and gently settles his teeth around Monroe’s throat. Even a run of the mill human could rip out a throat in this position. 

“You two are--” Renard bites off the end of his sentence and both Nick and Monroe gasp when he uses his strength to make Nick thrust into Monroe. Hard. Nick doesn’t resist and follows commands beautifully, letting Renard use his body. Renard eases Nick’s hips back, claws dimpling Nick’s skin but not enough to draw blood. He dictates the strength and speed and depth of Nick’s thrusts, reading Monroe’s reactions.

Nick pants, holding on for dear life because he’s fucking Monroe but he’s not in control.

They both serve the pleasure of their Prince.

Monroe grunts and gasps when Renard finds the most torturous angle. Nick presses a desperate kiss to Monroe’s mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle them lest he embarrassed himself. They don’t really part or end the kiss--they stay there, panting together and sharing air. Nick’s hands are occupied keeping him from face planting into Monroe, but Monroe has full use of his and hasn’t been told not to touch. So he lets himself roam free, enjoying the muttered expletives he gets when he finds a particularly sensitive place on Nick, and the few times his exploration brushes against Renard’s skin. He runs hotter than Nick, skin almost scalding compared to their Grimm.

It’s not long before their Prince’s pleasure pushes Monroe’s control to the limit. It would be embarrassing but this has been a long time coming and Nick isn’t faring much better.

“Renard,” Nick groans, a warning, and bites down _hard_ on Monroe’s pec. Monroe growls and yanks at Nick’s hair, to no avail.

“I am not your chew toy!” Nick grins ferally around his mouthful of flesh and bites down harder. Tenacious asshole Grimm. Nick lets go with a yelp when Renard brings his hand down in what sounds like a stinging blow. Monroe lets out his own curse when Renard’s hand, cool and slick with lube, wraps around his erection.

“Fuck him properly, Nicholas,” Renard orders, finally releasing his control of Nick’s hips. Nick resettles Monroe’s legs over his shoulder, places one hand on either side of Monroes head for leverage, and does as ordered. In the brief flashes of coherency Monroe has, he surmises Renard’s other hand is busy fucking into Nick to the same rhythm stroking Monroe’s cock. His orgasm lurks just below the surface, ready to break but Monroe needs...he needs something to get that last--

“Come for me.” Nick shudders, nearly silent as he comes. It takes a moment for the blush of heat to coalesce in an inferno of pleasure for Monroe, but when it does he _howls._ The blutbad roars to the surface, and the claw that was on Nick’s smooth shoulder is pinned to the ground with strength that equals his own.

“Wow,” Nick says, staring down at him. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are half closed but he looks and smells like _Nick._ There’s none of the lingering grief or sadness in his scent--just relaxed contentment, with Renard and Monroe mixing in. He barely even protests when Renard hauls him off (and out) of Monroe and lays them down side by side.

Renard towers above them and catches Monroe’s eye.

“Stay,” he commands, arrogance and entitlement personified. Unquestioning of their obedience. Monroe _loves_ it; from the way Renard’s nostrils flare as he catches the scent, how much has not gone unnoticed. There’s _so much_ Monroe wants to do with them. Nick snuggles into the crook of Monroe’s arm, humming with contentment. This is _almost_ perfect, but his wolf yet rumbles with discontent.

Monroe is far more alert than Nick by the time Renard comes back, a couple of towels in his arms. He pauses to admire them, sprawled out on the floor and satiated. The look on his face, fleeting though it may be, is undeniably tender. He places the towels on the ground and positions himself by their feet, legs spread to show off. Monroe tracks the hand that travels from Renard’s ear, over his jaw, down his neck, chest, and hooks into the boxer briefs that don’t hide a thing.

“Nick. Nick!” Monroe hisses, poking Nick in the ribs. Nick grumbles and shifts, grudgingly opening his eyes. He lets out a sharp breath, abruptly awake. They’re both captivated by the one-garment strip tease Renard’s putting on for them. He slides his fingers between the material and the side of his thigh, which just stretches the fabric tighter over his erection.

“Holy hell,” Nick says, slack-jawed. When Renard’s sure he has their undivided attention he smirks and the boxer briefs fall off him, Renard’s claws making short work of the material.

“Yeah,” Monroe agrees, a touch breathless. Renard is beautiful, no other word for it. There’s a certain amount of etherealness given his wesen heritage, but his sculpted chest and defined muscles are clearly cultivated. His tattoos flow down onto his chest and over his hips; Monroe cannot wait to inspect them all in minute detail.

Renard starts lazily jacking himself, eyes roaming over him and Nick like they’re his due. Monroe can’t really find anything to dispute that. He shifts, spreading his legs a bit to show off and entice. He gets an approving growl from his Alpha that sets something in him glowing with happiness. Nick ups the ante, trailing his fingers seductively over the planes of Monroe’s chest. They touch each other noting what makes Renard speed up or falter; when they kiss, they both keep their attention on Renard.

Nick’s fingers dragging through the drying come on Monroe’s belly gets them gold eyes and a possessive snarl. Monroe sucking Nick’s fingers into his mouth, smouldering gaze fixed firmly on Renard, gets them fast, desperate strokes and a delicious little mewling noise. Nick has a surprisingly dirty mouth on him (like, seriously, _whoa_ , that was completely unexpected), but Monroe knows what will send Renard past his breaking point.

He arches into Nick, plays up the effect his word and touch has, watching Renard’s features grow more animalistic and sharp. When they’re more feral than not, he lets his own beast rise to the surface and snarls, wolf heavy in his voice, _“Sean.”_

It’s like watching Renard get sucker punched; he actually stumbles forward, knees going weak. His come falls over Nick and Monroe in thick stripes. He sinks to one knee, staring at them a bit stupidly. Monroe completely understands.

“That was awesome!” Nick says, grinning. It definitely breaks the moment, Monroe sighing at Nick’s eternal lack of gravitas for anything. Renard rolls his eyes and sets about rubbing the come on their stomachs into their skin. “Hey! What--”

“Nope,” Monroe says, interrupting Nick’s instinctive attempt to push Renard off. “Just let him do his thing.” His mental list of Things to Explain to Nick is almost two pages long at this point. Scent marking, the importance of: subheadings Blutbad and Reineke Fuschbau, is going to take an entire weekend in and of itself. (Practical application of, naturally.)

“It’s gross!” Nick sticks his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout

“You were doing it, like, a minute ago!” Monroe feels compelled to point out.

“As an _inducement_ to more sex! It was sexy then.”

“Inducement?” Monroe repeats. “Really?”

“I know words, Monroe.”

“Uh huh. And I guess now it’s just some gross creature thing?” Monroe says snidely.

“Well. You said it.” Monroes mock-growls and flicks Nick on the nose. Renard steps in before they can start tussling.

“Both of you shut up.” Monroe responds instinctively to the Alpha tone; Nick has been conditioned by his years on the force. Renard continues scent marking them all, Monroe helping when it’s Renard’s turn. Nick mutely registers his objection by not participating. (They make him regret that, ignoring Nick as they rub against each other.) Nick wants to take a shower but they herd him to the kitchen instead. He makes a fuss about being naked and cold until Renard brings him Monroe’s boxers and Renard’s undershirt. They get a side-eyed look but Nick wisely lets it go.

***

Monroe makes dinner (after thoroughly washing his hands and scrubbing himself clean). He feeds his pack, makes sure they’re ok and generally frets, giving into his instinct to touch and scent-mark. Renard indulges him with a small knowing smile. Nick, as always, is completely oblivious to the subtle signs being directed at him, AND the culinary sophistication of a buzzard so the finer points of his braised mutton are lost on him (even if Monroe doesn't eat it himself he _knows_ it's excellent). Renard takes the time to complement the wine pairing. Monroe eventually grabs Nick's head and holds him in place while Monroe rubs against him.

By the time they’ve finished eating, tucked close together in Monroe’s breakfast nook, Nick’s more asleep than not. When it's time for bed he stumbles after Renard, half leaning against him to stay upright. Monroe crowds close behind, taking in the scent of his Pack. They don't even talk about it, just fall into Monroe's bed like they've been doing it for years.

Here, it’s Renard’s turn to fret, though he does it by pushing and prodding Nick where he wants him. Nick bears it all with the good grace of the supremely exhausted. When Nick’s down, it’s Monroe’s turn to get stripped and positioned for his Alpha’s pleasure. He ends up the big spoon, nose pressed behind Nick’s ear, arm stretched over his hip and waiting for Renard to slip in on Nick’s other side. (No matter what Nick says, the noise he lets out is a growl, not a purr.)

They finally have Nick in their bed, settled between them, breathing deep and even. This isn’t over--Nick will have his bad days still, where the despair sneaks back in and grief seems like an endless sea. But he has two people to keep him afloat now. Monroe will play the cello and make Nick food and pour tea down his throat. Renard will push just where Nick needs it, a swift shove in the right direction to keep from growing stagnant.

Monroe feels Renard’s regard and looks up, meets his Alpha’s steady gaze.

He has two people now, too. And that's two more than he's had for a very, very long time.

* * *

Even hundredfold grief is divisible by love. ~Terri Guillemets


End file.
